O Brother Where Art Thou?
by CrystalFNfire
Summary: Aragorn has always been protective of people in his charge, but why? One night, he sits down and tells Legolas a story of his past. He was not always a ranger. He had a mother... a brother... Finished!
1. Prologue

A/N: Welcome to this story if you haven't seen it before! If you are an old reader coming to refresh your memory, I want to let you know that I'm doing some house cleaning. I'm going through my old stories and doing some editing here and there. Nothing has changed content-wise. Just made this more readable. Enjoy!

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**Prologue**

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He should have been tired.

After all, he had been hunting the Orcs that had captured Merry and Pippin for two days and one night without rest.

He had pretended to fall asleep in front of the elf and the dwarf, but as soon as he had closed his eyes, the images of loss and hurt filled his mind so he had to turn on his side to not let his companions know that he was still awake.

The dwarf's heavy snores, the buzzing of night insects, and even the winds of Rohan blowing through the tall grass seemed to be amplified tenfold. The man longed to cover his ears from the mocking cries of nature. However, he knew that no matter how hard he tried to block out the screams of the night, he could never suppress the blood-curdling scream that resounded in his heart.

Aragorn could hold it together no longer, and opened his eyes, determined not to sleep and looked out from their shelter, into vast Rohan, home of the horse lords. The crescent moon leered at him from the sky and the laughing stars seemed to be ridiculing his past.

Legolas lay on his bedroll, eyes open, hands folded, and unmoving, every detail the sleeping form of an elf. But his mind was clear and the land of dreams held no pleasure for him that night. He did not really need sleep, in the sense that mortals did, and he only rested because Aragorn and Gimli must. He could dwell in dreams even as he walked open-eyed, and he was not physically tired, though the continued thoughts of the two little hobbits in the arms of Orcs was mentally and emotionally taxing.

He listened as his friend twisted and turned in his blanket, unable to sleep, but unaware that any other was aware of his plight. Legolas could only guess at what was bothering the man, who had been withdrawn and morose ever since Boromir's death and Merry and Pippin's capture. Though they had been friends for many years, much of Aragorn's early life was still a mystery to the elf, as the man never spoke of his life at Rivendell and seldom of his mother.

Finally, unable to be a silent witness any longer, the elf sat up and placed a hand on the man's shoulder. Immediately, he felt Aragorn force his breathing into the steady rhythm of a mortal sleeper's, and the tense muscles in his arm relax so he appeared to be placid. Legolas smiled and said quietly, "You cannot fool me, _adan_. I know that you are not asleep."

When the man still did not respond, the elf stood and walked a little ways from their beds and then paced back, standing purposefully in front of Aragorn's body, so the man could no longer see into Rohan. Looking far into the night with his elf-eyes, Legolas though he saw a flicker of light coming from a great hall upon a high hill, in Edoras, but it was quickly put out. Perhaps someone else with insomnia in the Golden Hall of Meduseld?

"I can outwait you," Legolas told the man. "After all, I have forever, you know." Aragorn continued to feign sleep, and the elf heard him put in an unconvincing snore. As if a Ranger, traveling the wild all these years and sleeping in the open, would have survived this long if he snored. "You have not been the same since Boromir's death," the elf put bluntly, and Aragorn felt his heart sink. His friend knew him too well. "What is it, _Estel_?"

The man leaped up from his reclining position at his childhood name. "Do _not_ call me that!" he snarled. The elf knew that he hated being called this name and would only endure it from the mouth of Elrond. Only the Lord of the Last Homely House East of the Sea and his children, now, knew why the name so angered him.

"Hush," Legolas chided, turning to face the man, his blond hair glistening in the moonlight. "Speak softly or you shall wake our dwarf friend."

Aragorn's chest ached with the memory brought with that name, and did not heed the elf's warning. Instead, he only snorted and spat vehemently, "Once Gimli is asleep, nothing can wake him save his own will. He can sleep through a dragon attack."

The elf had never known the man to be impertinent, and asked again, "What is bothering you?"

"The hobbits and the Orcs," the man lied through his teeth and turned his back on the elf.

Legolas did not rebuke him for lying, though the man knew that the elf could see right through him, as if he was a pane of glass. Instead, the elf took another, more gentle approach. "You wish to catch the foul creatures and rescue the two little ones badly," he said, his voice without emotion.

"And you do not?" Aragon's lack of sleep, mixed with his inability to sleep and his fear of sleep, was making him quite hard to get along with. The elf gave the man's back a wry smile and turned back to observe the star-lit plains of the land of the horse lords. Happy indeed were they that lived on this land.

"Very much so," Legolas countered. "But you seem to want it most of all." He was both saddened and delighted that this seemed to have hit its mark, and Aragorn forgot that the elf had a way with words that almost outshone his ability with a bow.

The man spun around and cried, "Of _course_ I want it most of all! How can I not?!" He began to wring his hands in desperation, a nervous habit that Legolas had not seen him do for a long time. "I was your leader! But under my leadership, Boromir fell, Frodo and Sam have run off, and Merry and Pippin have been captured!" He grabbed the elf by the shoulder and spun him around unceremoniously. "_Everything_ has gone wrong!"

Legolas put a comforting hand on the man's shoulder, and squeezed it, kneading the knotted muscles under too much stress. "But you are our leader still," the elf told him. "And I will follow you to whatever end."

Aragorn broke away from the elf's grasp and began to pace the length of their small camp, kicking furiously at the grass and blankets, trying desperately to find an outlet for everything inside of him. "And if that end was death?" he asked shrilly. "I cannot see what is ahead of us, Legolas. You and Gimli could both die if you continue to follow me."

Legolas watched the man and answered, "None of us can see the future, Aragorn, and if the Valar decide to give me death, I will gladly accept it."

Aragorn kicked at his pack so that it skidded to halt ten feet from where it was before. "I _cannot_ let you _die_, Legolas!" he forced through clenched teeth. "We have seen too much, been through too much together." He stopped and turned to the elf. "I cannot lose you or Gimli! I have enough deaths on my hands already."

Legolas paused, turning this over in his mind. Finally, he spoke. "Gandalf's and Boromir's deaths were not your fault."

"You do _not_ understand!" the man cried and went to retrieve his pack, stomping the entire way.

"Then let me understand," the elf persisted. He followed the man, who was trying his best to not look at his friend, and with the agility of his kind, sprang forward and picked up the pack first.

Aragorn sighed, and had no choice but to look at the elf, whose expression was set in a hard line of determination. He knew he could not evade his friend any longer, and realized perhaps that sharing his past would help ease his pains.

"The night is young," he said slowly. "Come, Legolas. I will tell you my tale."

**TBC...**


	2. Chapter 1: A Very Happy Birthday

**Thank you, everyone that reviewed and liked this story. I will try and update soon, but school has started, and I am only human.

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Chapter 1

**A Very Happy Birthday**

Estel woke on the morning of his nineteenth birthday, in the soft, feathered bed of his chamber, to soft clopping of horse hooves on the stones outside his windows. Exhilarated, he did not hesitate to throw off the warm covers, then shivered, for the air was still chilly, blowing in through the open balcony on the first day of March, in the year 2951 of the Third Age. Jumping into his tunic and leggings, he struggled for a moment longer with his boots, but was soon dashing out his bedroom door, leaving his bed unmade.

His mother would scold him later, but he did not care, for _Naneth_ must understand his alacrity in getting out of bed this morning. Racing down the hall, he took the stairs two at a time on his long, gangly, and still somewhat unstable adolescent, legs. Normally, he would have surveyed the blooming of Imladris on the first day of spring, as he could never get enough of the beauty in this realm of elves, but this year, the spring could wait. Valar, his _birthday_ could even wait this year, for two days ago, _Ada _had gotten a message, and this morning, Estel had clearly heard horse hooves on the path.

He surged out the doors of the courtyard and ran down the road, squirrels scampering away from his wayward feet and the stinging winds tear at his lungs. The trees that lined the way rushed past in a blur, and he paid no heed to the promising blue sky and shining sun.

In front of him, where the path widened to meet the stables, three riders were dismounting, all dark-hared, and riding bareback on chestnut stallions. They were all dressed in travelers' garb, with gray cloaks, brown tunics, and dirty boots. Two of them had quivers of arrows and bows, and the other carried a long sword on his back and a dagger in his ankle sheath. Before the rider to the far left even landed on his feet, Estel surged forward and wrapped him in a bone-breaking embrace, sword and all.

"Cuiladan!" he cried, and his brother gave a muffled cry of surprise, and choked back a hello. Estel's brows furrowed, for even through the thick layers his brother was wearing to prevent against the cold, he could feel the angle of bones sticking out, as if he had not had a decent meal in days. His short brown hair was windblown and strewn, showing that he had been riding hard all morning and had not stopped the night before.

"He could greet you better if you allowed him to breathe," Elrohir suggested, with a small smile, giving his horse a pat on its glistening flank so it trotted towards the stables obediently.

"And we happen to be your brothers too!" Elladan teased, his blue eyes glinting in the morning sun. "Do we not also get a greeting?"

Sheepishly, Estel let go of Cuiladan, who tested his breathing and checked if any ribs were broken. He turned to Elladan and Elrohir, who looked the same, as usual, with their long hair free of all restraints and piercing blue eyes, much to the like of their father's. They were both tall, with pale skin that contrasted sharply with their dark hair, and if Estel had not known him for all of his life, he would not have been able to tell them apart. Indeed, he still had trouble until he was ten if the twins did not speak, but that was when he discovered that Elladan had a slightly dark spot below his lip, where an Orc had injured him once.

However, this changed with the light, and it was still easier to tell them apart by listening to the two speak, for Elrohir had a tendency to talk in sarcasm while Elladan had a lighter humor, which was usually easier to understand. Actually, Estel had always thought that Elrohir disliked him because of the way he spoke to him, but realized, as he got older, that it was how the elf spoke to everyone, and soon adjusted to this.

The younger boy embraced the twins in turn and greeted them warmly with, "_Mae govannen, gwedyr nin_." (**Well met, my brothers.**) He then turned so he faced all three of his traveling family members.

"And who is this unbroken young colt?" Cuiladan finally asked, after whispering a few words to his stallion, which also cantered towards the stables. He cuffed his younger brother lightly over the head and laughed.

"He's no longer a colt, though he may act like one," Elrohir measured himself against Estel. The top of the boy's head came to the tip of his ear. "Elbereth, you must have drunk Ent draught since we last saw you."

"You _have_ grown," Elladan commented. "I believe he's taller than you, now, Cuiladan." Estel gave a small smile, and his brother stepped up to him. Indeed, he was now taller, though only by a fingerbreadth.

"He'll outgrow us all," Cuiladan said, giving his brother one of prize-winning smiles that made all the women fawn. He had always been Estel's role model, someone he still measured himself to. At twenty-one, Cuiladan had lost his adolescence, but not his boyish good looks, enhanced by serious gray eyes and a scanty stubble, and his natural skills with people made him popular wherever he went. His hollow cheeks and peaky look from being underfed on their travels only made him more handsome.

Though he was only of average height, Estel still felt he had to look up to his older brother, who seemed to succeed at everything he did. Indeed, he had only been nineteen when he went on his first journey with Elladan and Elrohir to pursue an Orc band that had taken hold of the passage between Lothlórien and Mirkwood.

For two years, Estel had heard his brother's stories, for before Cuiladan had joined the twins, he rarely saw Elladan and Elrohir, and he longed to be part of one. He had asked Elrond again and again, but his _ada_ had always dismissed him as too young, or unskilled enough, though Estel had been training with the weapon's master since he was eight. He thought that he was as skilled as he was ever going to get with a blade, but Elrond had always been firm.

"What news?" he asked eagerly as they made their way into the Last Homely House East of the Sea.

Elrohir raised an eyebrow as the four brothers walked down the hall. "Surely, you cannot expect us to spoil it all for you now, Estel. It would be too wearying to repeat it again for the inquiries at supper!" They were making their way to the brothers' chambers, which were next to each other on the second floor of Rivendell. Estel's heart rejoiced, thinking that he again had his brothers to talk to when he experienced one of his sleepless nights.

"And besides," Elladan followed up, "you know that a traveler's stories must be repaid by meals…"

"And board!" Elrohir finished, and the twins grinned at each other.

"I can never understand how you do that," Cuiladan said, sharing a look with Estel, who completely agreed with him. Elladan and Elrohir seemed to share something that neither of them could comprehend, and even though Estel could sometimes guess what Cuiladan was thinking, he could never finish his sentences like the twins seemed to do all the time.

"Please, Elrohir," the youngest begged, "there must be something that won't take _too_ long to tell." However, as he talked, Estel only had eyes for his brothers, and did not look in front of him, so he nearly walked into his father. Elrond hastily stepped aside, allowing room for his youngest son, who seemed to always be running into things the past few years, for such was the fate of mortals at the stage between youth and manhood.

Estel muttered an apology, and tried to get out of the way, but only succeeded in tripping over his own feet. He caught himself in time, and gave the others a lopsided grin, though his cheeks were burning with embarrassment.

Elrond pardoned him, and stepped towards his other three sons, who looked weather-beaten, but healthy. "Welcome back," he greeted them in the Silvan Tongue. "I am happy to see all of you in one piece and well."

"In one piece, but not well, _ada_," Elladan grinned. "For we are hungry for things other than traveler biscuits and stale water." A rumbling sound from Cuiladan's stomach only assented that claim. Elrond gave his oldest child a look, for he was not used to being interrupted, but only laughed.

"I see, then, that reports can wait until after breakfast," the lord said. "But meet me after you have eaten in my chambers, and we shall talk." Estel's heart sank, for he had wanted to speak with his brothers and be the first to get their account. Now, he had to wrestle what he could out of them while they ate.

"And Estel," Elrond turned to his youngest son. "Come an hour after you have eaten, for I must speak with you as well." The boy's mouth dropped open and the sinking feeling disappeared.

Estel could barely contain himself through breakfast and hardly swallowed a bite. He was so excited that he did not even look twice at his birthday presents, though Elladan had given him an elvish dagger and Elrohir a book on the war tactics of the dwarves. Cuiladan said that he had something special for him, but they would have to finish eating and speaking with their father before he would tell him what it was.

The youngest was left, bouncing off the walls, and the hour that he had to kill seemed to last forever. He paced his room, his mother's room, the library, and the Hall of Fire, listening to the silence that resounded through those pillars when the meals were done.

Finally, checking the sun, he estimated that the hour was up, and dashed (for that was the only way he got around these days) up to his father's chambers. Without knocking, he burst in, only to find himself in the midst of silence.

His father, Elrohir, and Elladan leaped up at his entrance, but Cuiladan only looked up and then looked away again. The other three sat back down when they realized that it was him, but by then, Estel had sensed the tension, which could have been cut by a knife. He looked between the four and saw Cuiladan give their _ada_ a glare of resentment and frustration. He had never seen his brother give _anyone_ a look like that, much less their father.

The faces of the twins were unreadable, as they only stared straight ahead, not looking at anything. Finally, as the silence deepened, Elrond opened his mouth, "Estel, you are on time—" Cuiladan got up to leave "—No, stay, Cuiladan. You all must hear this." The man sat, the wooden chair creaking and glowered at their father, nearly snarling with anger. Elrond suppressed what was in his heart and ignored this, but continued. "You know that you have not finished what you've started," he told the twins and Cuiladan sternly.

Estel only looked back and forth between the others, a confused look in his eyes, for he could not understand what his father was speaking of and why his brother was so angry. "Estel, you are nineteen now, and of age," Elrond suddenly said, and the boy whipped his head around so fast, his neck clicked. His father looked him in the eye, and though he usually had to look away before long, the boy stared in anxiety. "And Cuiladan was your age when he killed his first Orc. I have decided that you shall go them this time."


	3. Chapter 2: Secrety Identity

**Chapter 2**

**Secret Identity**

Estel's exhilaration did not last, however, for his brother's attitude did not change, and he was sullen and moody all through supper that night. While Elladan and Elrohir related stories of their travels and fights to all that would hear, Cuiladan only sat at his place, occasionally raising his head to listen to the elves sing and take a swig of his wine, but did not touch his food.

Though the twins did not seem to mind Cuiladan, but left him alone, Estel could not help but feel the pervasive grimness that issued forth from every pore of his brother. He would not speak to anyone, and even the Lay of Luthien that night, his favorite of the elven histories, did not cheer him. Estel found it hard to be happy on his birthday when his brother seemed so preoccupied.

Finally, unable to contain it any longer, Estel leaned forward, for he sat parallel to his brother, and asked, "Cuiladan, what is on your mind?"

"Nothing," the man answered gruffly, taking another long draw from his wine and wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve. Estel raised an eyebrow. His brother had impeccable manners and would never resort to crudeness when they were in such plain view of their father. His outward display of rebellion only belied his inner anger.

"Really, Cuiladan. You have not said a word since this morning," the boy tried to urge it out of his brother. "What is it?"

"I _said_ nothing!" the man stood up so abruptly, the chair he had been sitting in flew backwards and teetered dangerously on its hind legs for a second before crashing back down on all four wooden pegs. Estel flung himself backward, for he had never seen his brother in such a mood.

The entire chamber grew silent, and even the elven minstrels stopped singing as all eyes turned to the man. Elrond's head jerked up, along with everyone else's, and he gave him a long look that Cuiladan returned with equal intensity. They glared at each other for what seemed to be an eternity, while Estel stared, flabbergasted and nonplussed, though he could not do a single thing.

"Cuiladan, sit _down_," Elladan warned, but his brother took no heed. The twins exchanged a glance, and both rose as well, standing between the seated Elrond and the seething Cuiladan, as if afraid that the latter would jump on the former with rage.

The air hummed with conflict, but Elrond only continued to look at his son and waved a hand, telling the elves to go back to their meal and songs. Very slowly, the music began to play again, though not with the same frivolity, and the conversation went from silence to a slight buzzing.

"Cuiladan," Elrohir warned, and this time, no sarcasm existed in his tone. The man only looked away from his father and glowered back at his brothers as if they had betrayed him.Then, with the same brashness as before, the man flung down his wine vessel and stomped towards the exit, hands clenched at his sides.

"Why are you angry? This is an opportunity, not a curse!" Elladan shouted after him. His twin put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back into his seat, but never took his eyes off of the receding figure of the man.

"Oh yes," he muttered, rolling his eyes, and reverting back to his regular manner. "That was definitely a way to encourage him to like his new status."

Estel, still puzzled over his brother's manner, stood back up to go to him, but a look from Elrohir stopped him. Slowly, he sank back into his seat and began to drum his eating utensil against his plate, the cold food not giving him the slightest appeal.

He wanted to follow his brother, but after Cuiladan's stunning exit, he did not dare to anger his father again. He sat through supper, the intoxicating elven music floating through his mind as he pushed his food around his plate, scratching his tragically smooth chin. The twins did not look at him again afterward, but he could feel Elrond's eyes constantly turning towards him as the nigh progressed. Every time this happened, Estel felt as if a spotlight had been turned on him, and squirmed with discomfort.

Elladan and Elrohir told no more stories, and none of the other elves pestered them for any, as the Head Table ate their food in silence. The young man knew that his appetite was already gone, and the histories of Luthien and Beren proved to be no interest to him that night.

When supper ended, Estel had neither filled his belly nor gotten any more out of the trio's adventure. Even his upcoming journey did not seem at all exciting, watching his family feud in this fashion. His own rumbling stomach brought him back to thinking of how gaunt and thin Cuiladan had looked, and knew that his brother must have been extremely angry to give up his meal.

Going down to the kitchen, he proceeded to wrestle some food from the unwilling cook. He got away with a loaf of bread, some butter, a slice of salted pork, and an apple before the cook ran him out of the kitchen. He balanced the food on a clean tray that he found in the dining hall and headed up the stairs.

As he passed his mother's room, he heard a garble of Elvish ranting mixed with cursing in the Common Tongue. Stopping, he listened closer, and was shocked to find his brother's voice spouting these profanities. Confusion, then fury coursed through his mind, as he would not all any, even Cuiladan, to speak to his mother that way. Gripping the tray in one hand, he charged in, fuming, and heard racing in his chest. The door was unlocked, in the custom of Rivendell, for elves considered this type of trust as a common courtesy.

"Shut _up_, Cuiladan!" he cried, his vision blurred with rage; he had never said such a thing to his older brother before. This was the second private meeting that he had burst into, but unlike before, he felt no guilt. "You are _not_ to speak to Mother that way!"

The room was lit by a single candle, and the shadows of the flames danced wildly across his brother's surprised, then angry features as he turned to see Estel.

Neither dared to meet Gilraen's eyes as he snarled back, "I shall speak with Mother however I choose! Stop trying to butt in to my business, you little runt!" With that, he pushed past the boy, making him drop the tray. The door slammed as the tray clattered to the wooden floorboards, scattering its holdings across the room. Tears and an apple rolled, the former down Estel's cheeks and the latter over the ground.

Quickly wiping the shameful salt water with the heel of his hand, Estel turned to his mother. "_Naneth_, what is wrong with Cuiladan?" he questioned through gritted teeth, his fists clenched at his sides. "He has been that way ever since… since he met with _ada_ this morning!"

Gilraen turned her luminous gray eyes to her second son, her dark tresses framing her translucent skin, and Estel was struck by the sorrow in his mother's features. This feeling always came over him when he looked upon her, but he could never remember her speaking of anything in her past that troubled her. Actually, she never spoke of her past before Cuiladan was born. Estel was never sure whether his curiosity outweighed his guilt of the thought of bringing more sadness into his mother's life or not, so he hand never asked.

"You are too young to understand, my son," she spoke, further frustrating the boy.

Abandoning all decorum, he swept a hand over the nearest dresser, sending the tin washing basin to the floor. "I am _always _too young to understand, am I not, _Naneth_?" he cried. "When shall I be of age, then? When I am Cuiladan's age? I shall _never_ be his age!"

His mother stood, tall and proud, like a daughter of kings, a plain white dress enhancing her slight figure, and Estel was instantly sorry. However, a willful notion stood doggedly at the back of his head, and he glared back at Gilraen, his eyes fiery with anger and passion.

Instead of retaliating, Gilraen, only smiled, her eyes sad, and again seated herself on her wooden recliner that always made her seem twice as slight as she really was. "Be patient, Estel," she told him. "You want to grow up too fast. You seek age and wisdom so soon. Beware of what they may yield."

The boy opened his mouth, but could find no fitting answer, and found himself playing with the edges of his leggings and tunic. "I…" he stammered. "It just seems that… that everyone is older and has experienced so much more than me!" His heart was uneasy, and frustration coursed through every limb. "I have never been the first to know anything! I have never been the first to _do_ anything! I… I know I am capable of more! I want a responsibility!"

Gilraen looked into the innocent and determined look in her son's novice eyes, and shook her head slowly. She stood again, and walked over to Estel, taking his hands and looking up at his inexperienced, young face. Though he was now taller than her, she felt so much older and wiser, standing next to him, for his heart was untouched and his soul was pure. He had never seen…

"Do not say such a thing, my son," she warned, her words hard, grating upon his ears. "For responsibility enough shall come to you sooner than you expect." She did not know what compelled her to say those words, but the moment Estel's eyes widened, she knew that it was true.

Mother and son looked into each other's eyes, gazed deep into each other's soul, and Gilraen, though not gifted by the foresight of her mother, had the sensitivity to see, beneath the soft outer cover that Rivendell had wrought for her son, something of his father in his heart. Estel, wise enough at his age, also saw in his mother, something stern and resolute, holding her up, almost as if a determined shoot holding out against a wild tempest. This will drove her, made her step forward each day, forced her to keep going.

_What has Naneth been through_? he found himself wondering, but then, a strong gust of wind blew through the open balcony, and flitted under the curtains, bringing in a myriad of young buds that had not been able to stand the harsh, cold, early spring. The candlelight danced wildly and threatened to go out.

Gilraen wrenched herself from her son, and the magic of the moment was lost, as she walked to the balcony and closed the light doors, her gown trailing over the pinks and purples of the infant flowers. "It is late," her voice went back to her normal, soft, undertone. "You should get to bed. Please clean up the mess you made."

Estel looked down at the ground and color came to his cheeks. "I apologize, _Naneth_," he mumbled, and cleaned up the mess on the ground, putting the still-edible food back onto the tray. However, still angry, for his mother had answered nothing of his questions, he slunk out of the room without even a "good-night."

His fury turned onto his brother, and he stormed down the hall, the tray still in his hand, and tried the heavy oak door that led to his brother's room. It was locked. Even more offended by this gesture, Estel pounded on the door with all his might, his fist sending sparks of pain up his arm as it connected with the wood. "Cuiladan, you have a _lot_ of explaining to do!" he cried. He did not care that most had already gone to bed, and that Cuiladan could easily win him in an all out fight even though he was taller than him now.

Only silence answered him.

Not at all ready to give up, he pounded again, and even kicked the door for good measure, but only succeeded with acquiring a painfully stubbed toe. "If you do not open the door, I shall kick it down!" he screamed.

Both he and Cuiladan knew that it was an empty threat, for the door was so heavy that even two full-fledged warriors such as Elladan and Elrohir would not have been able to force it open. Despite the needles of pain in his foot, Estel kicked the wood once more with his soft-soled boot, and nearly threw himself at the door.

He wanted his brother to reply. Even if he only screamed back and hit him, he would have felt better than this, yelling at a doorknob.

"I want to know what happened between you and _ada_!" he cried to the silence, hammering the wood with his fist and foot. "How dare you speak with _naneth_ and _ada_ that way? I want to know! I need to—"

The door swung inward so suddenly that he nearly toppled over. He stumbled, and regained his footing by holding out a hand to steady himself against the wall, and looked forward, staring Cuiladan straight in the face, to show that he was going to take whatever was coming to him like a man. .

"Elrond is _not _my _ada_!" the older man cried, a ferocious rage in his eyes. "And he had no right to pretend to have been for all these years! He has no right to tell me all this now!"

"What, by the Valar, are you talking about?" Estel's mouth dropped at this accusation, and he stared, horrified, at his brother.

"I… I…" Cuiladan was panting with all his pent up anger, and his teeth were clenched so he looked like an untamed animal. His brother could see that his hair was standing up in places where he had gripped it in frustration, and his clothes reeked of the alcohol that he had hidden away in his room. His usually handsome face was twisted into the expression of a madman's, and his hollow cheeks only made him look gaunt and underfed.

"I… I am the heir to the throne of Gondor!" he finally cried.

Estel dropped the tray of food for the second time.

**TBC...**

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**(Gasp!) I finally had time to update, and reply to reviews! Thanks you guys! I promise I'll keep writing if I don't drown under the workload of my school first. **

**Maidenhair**: You lucky bastard! Grr! I wish I homeschooled!

**viggomaniac**: Cool! I'm in your C2! Yay! And I think I already e-mailed you about Estel's fate, but don't give it away to anyone! SHH!

**Warcrow**: Thanks for complimenting me on my writing style. I'm glad you like the name "Cuiladan," even though I totally made it up and I don't think that it's proper... lol... I promise that I will make the story go faster and pick up the pace once all the angst begins, but right now, I'm just getting into the story, so the reader gets the mood.

**sielge**: Oh yes, the story unfolds... hee hee hee...

**Syen**: I love your rambling... lol... keep doing it. It's always interesting to read! And that's cool how you can do the twin thing with pimpernelunderthecelticmoon! LOL... and I'm totally flattered by your reviews... (blushes and looks at feet)

**Mizamour**: Thanks for the review. BTW, you still alive out there? You don't answer my emails and you don't update. Hello? LOL... ;)

**surf all day and do the hula**: I love typing your name... lol... it's so fun!


	4. Chapter 3: Of Fathers and Brothers

**Author's Note**: Sorry for not updating for so long, you guys, but school work has been killing me. Also, I'm not allowed to answer reviews in my fics anymore, so I will personally email you if I can find your emails... Please review if you like it, or even if you didn't like it. I want to improve my writing skills!**

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**Chapter 3**

**Of Brothers and Fathers**

Estel lay on his bed, his eyes staring unblinkingly at the shadows that moved across his ceiling, as the trees shifted in the wind outside. The silence of night surrounded him, and the warmth issuing from his blanket was almost lulling, but the boy could not find the peace within himself to sleep.

He had always known deep inside that Elladan and Elrohir were not _actually_ related to him, and he had always been sure that Elrond was not his _real_ father, but had they not always treated him as if he were family? Yes, they were elves, and he was not, but were they not still family? His mother was not Elladan and Elrohir's mother, and they rarely visited her, so who was their real mother? Questions raced through Estel's mind, but he could find no answers to any of them.

His biological father must be dead, but why had his mother brought Cuiladan and him here? Why did Elrond actually treat him like a father? If Cuiladan was the heir to the throne of Gondor, what did that make him?

_A son of kings,_ a little voice in his head told him. _With blood that is rich with that of the Westernesse_.

He had read about the Westernesse. He knew the history of Isildur and Elendil and the fall of Sauron in the end of the Second Age, and he had learned about the sinking of Numenor into the vast seas and the faithful men sailing to Middle-Earth. He knew all of the old sayings, but all of them seemed like giant figures, buried deep in the folds of history, legendary and mysterious.

He, Estel, of Rivendell, could not possibly have any relation to them. He, barely nineteen and out of childhood, clumsy as a cripple and still without the beard of a man, could not _possibly_ have such great men as his ancestors. Their blood must have been lost in him, for he felt neither noble nor great; he felt lost and confused, in deep water when he could not swim.

_And ada—no, Elrond—wants me to accompany Cuiladan, Elladan, and Elrohir to Wilderland and beyond!_ he remembered, but the thought no longer registered the same excitement as it had before. Perhaps it was because he now knew why Elrond had treated him the way he had.

He was sheltered all of his young life because others would have found it easy to kill him when he was a child. He had never been told his true origin because he may let the information leak, and those who opposed the return of the king to Gondor would have assassinated him and Cuiladan. Now that he had reached his coming of age, Elrond wanted him to ride out with his brothers and prove his worth. He wanted to see if Estel had the blood of the Numenoreans in him.

Panic rose up in the boy's mind, as he realized this. What if he made a fool of himself and got killed? Worse, what if he made a fool of himself and killed someone out of stupidity?

He sat up in bed, throwing the covers off of himself, breathing hard in the dark, eyes wide. He could leave now, and never come back. That way, he could leave his title and everything he learned about his bloodline behind, and wander in the wilderness… but what would his family think of him then?

A coward, they would say, no doubt. No, there was no way he could get away with that. Besides, he was not a woodman and he would not know how to survive on his own. Cuiladan and the others would easily be able to track him down, and he would never be able to face anyone ever again.

Biting his lip, he sank back into the soft folds of his bed again, and closed his eyes, trying to sleep. He had no other choice but to go on the journey, though he was still confused as what he was to do.

_Oh Valar_, he prayed quietly. _Of all the people in this world, why me_?

The days to the morning when Estel had to set out with his brothers flashed by so quickly, the boy did not know where they went. His memory blurred, and the days and nights seemed to melt together. All he knew was that he found himself with a pack in hand, a bare-backed mare in his care, and a blood-red blemish developing on his chin, as the cool morning breezes blew through his hair.

_Of all the days to get a blemish!_ his mind cried in frustration, and wiped furiously at his hairless chin, but only succeeding in hurting himself. It was strange what the mind focused on during life-changing situations such as these. It was like the time he had broken his leg. As Elrond set it for him, he had not felt any pain, for his mind had been dwelling in the deep reaches of the wells of time.

Estel knew that his mind was digressing, and tried to focus on the present. He knew why he had to go, of course. Elrond had already explained it to him. His brothers had not finished their task of eliminating the land between Lórien and Mirkwood of Orcs, and with a few others from Rivendell and the Lórien and Mirkwood warriors, they would try again. The last time had only caused the deaths of countless elves, but this time, they were determined to wipe out the hated race from between the two forests.

"Estel…" a soft voice resounded from behind him, and he turned, recognizing its noble, yet mellow tone. Elrond looked back at him, his face unyielding to any expression, but in his eyes, the boy saw the pride, hurt, tenderness, and ultimately, _love_, mixed together. He was dressed in the formal attire of Rivendell, dark earthy colors sewn in velvet, swathing his lithe form. It was only proper for one who would send all of his sons on a quest that may yield no return.

A lump formed in the boy's throat, and he realized that he had not spoken to his foster father since the day that Cuiladan had told him about his true origins. Even now, he could not find words to express his anger, his hurt, but mostly, his _love_. Men of his house were not to show emotion. They were not to show their innermost feelings. It was easy for elves, and it should have been easy for him, one who had their blood and was raised by them. Still, he felt the lump grow bigger, and he had to swallow.

The horse at his side nickered softly. He did not pay her any attention.

"Estel," the elf repeated, his eyes intent. "This is for you. May you use it well." The boy looked questioningly at him, and he managed a smile, small but present, giving Estel a glimmer of comfort. "I never gave you a coming of age gift," he said steadily. "And this is for you." He thrust a lumpy but light package into the boy's hands. Estel looked down, then up to thank his foster father, but he was gone. Even at his age, the agility of elves still amazed him.

Startled and injured, the boy piled the package onto his mare, along with his other meager supplies.

Then, looking around the courtyard, he saw that it seemed as if all of Rivendell had come to say goodbye. The entire space was filled with light and dark elves, their pointed features beautiful in the rising sun. His eyes searched the rows of elves, but did not see Gilraen anywhere among the sea of solemn and graceful elven faces. Certainly she would have come to say farewell to her sons? After all, she may not see either one of them again. So why was she not present? At this thought of never seeing his mother again, Estel shuddered, then felt ashamed.

He, of the House of Elendil, should _not_ be afraid of death or pain. He was supposed to be valiant. He was supposed to be strong. Of all things, he was _not _supposed to be afraid of never seeing Gilraen again. But, amidst all these thoughts, he could not help but wonder, Where is mother--?

"Ready Estel?" Elladan's cheerful voice made him start from his reverie. "We are almost at the hour of departure. Estel whipped his head around to find that his brothers and the four other elves traveling with them were already on their horses, facing southeast.

_They are not really your brothers_, his head told him. But it was difficult to stop thinking of Elladan and Elrohir as anything but kin. They had been for his entire life, and no one could except him to just let go.

"Half a minute," he answered, clambering up the side of the mare and adjusting his position upon her back. The mare snorted and tossed her proud, chestnut head, making him lose his grip on her mane. He blushed furiously and dug his heels into the horse's side, forcing her to join the small band before the gates of Rivendell. He pulled her forcefully next to Elrohir, who was next to Elladan, who sidled up next to a stone-faced Cuiladan.

While the two men and guard elves looked either worried or solemn (Estel was sure he was the only one that looked the former), the twins acted as if they could not have been gayer if they had been going on a brisk morning jaunt. As the melodious horns of departure sounded, Estel overheard their quiet jests between snickers and chuckles.

"I still do not understand why they always get the orders of the horns and ranks mixed up," Elladan muttered to his twin. "It is ceremoniously incorrect to announce you first, as they have just done. I _am _the oldest." The horns continued to play elaborate notes, drowning out Elrohir's laughter, which was a good thing, as Elrond was already looking their way.

"Why are you so worked up?" the other's sarcasm was plain. "After all, no one gets a _longer_ horn call than you." It was true. Being the eldest, Elladan's tune had been playing for the past thirty seconds.

"Father does," his twin pointed out, smiling.

"Well, yes," the other answered. "But Father has not been out of Rivendell for so long, I doubt anyone even remembers his tune."

"I do."

"You do _not_."

"And how would you know?" Elladan retorted. "I can remember it as clear as yesterday."

"Sadly, you _cannot_ remember yesterday," Elrohir smirked, and sidestepped his horse as Elladan struck out so quickly to cuff his twin, that no one else caught it but Estel.

"I most certainly can!"

"Then what did we have for supper last night?" the other asked, and grinned triumphantly as Elladan hesitated.

"But I really do remember Father's tune," he stated. "It goes something like, _do doo do doo dodo doo da dum_." Elladan proceeded to hum his father's tone as the gates of Rivendell opened by elvish magic. "And I think it ends with, _da da da dum, da da da dum_!"

Estel took another look back and saw, suddenly, the snow-white figure of his mother gazing down at them from a balcony. Though dressed in white, she seemed pale and cold in the morning light, removed and serene. Her eyes met his, and Estel was again aware of her sorrow. But, to his surprise, she smiled. One milk-white arm was lifted in farewell, and her dress fluttered in the light zephyr, a small dove in flight, but trapped. Trapped forever in a cage, for the key to her heart had been lost.

Estel held his mother's gaze, hope and sadness both filling his heart, and nodded a farewell. He would come back. He had to.

"No. It's not _dum_. It's _dum_! It goes up in the end," Elrohir was arguing.

"No. It goes down," Elladan argued back, and Estel could not help but draw up his cloak around his mouth and cough in order not to laugh out loud. The twins heard this and looked up almost guiltily as they passed the gates into the outer world.

The boy was sure he would feel a change in the air or a stirring of the earth, but he felt as he always did.

But he was out of Rivendell. He had never been outside of the walls of Imladris before! How had Cuiladan felt at his age? His eyes could not take in enough, and he strained to hear everything within range. His hands tightened on his mare's mane and she snorted, but seemed content by being on the road again, where she belonged. So this was the outside world!

As they moved towards the road, a score of elven voices rose in the air, singing a song of farewells and adventures. It was slow and moving, like a river meandering lazily in a hazy afternoon.

Elladan and Elrohir finally shut their mouths as one of the older guards gave them a reproving look. Estel could not help but hide a smirk as the two looked like boys again, blinking innocently upon their horses. However, they realized their duty and led the small procession down the road, the beautiful, haunting notes of the elves calling after them.

Estel glanced at Cuiladan and saw that he was curiously biting his knuckles and turning nearly purple. Obviously, he had overheard the twins as well. It had seemed like an eternity since Estel had heard his brother laugh.

Suddenly, the day seemed brighter. The very air was vibrant with odors, and the larks in the masses of green leaves seemed to sing sweeter than before. Cuiladan was not sulky anymore. His mother had smiled for the first in a long time. He would come back for her. He was leaving Rivendell for the first time! He was a man now, of age, and ready for what lay in store for him in the wide world. The journey did not deem to be as difficult or as ominous now. He was with his brothers—yes, his brothers.

For though they were not all of one birth, Estel knew that he would always have a kinship with Elladan and Elrohir. Though not biologically linked, he, Cuiladan, and the twins were entwined so intimately at the heart, that only brotherhood could define their relationships. And Elrond?

He was _ada_.

He would always be _ada_.

The sun shone, and Estel looked farther down the road as he started on his first adventure.

**TBC...

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Please review! Right now, I'm on, like 3 people's faves list and 7 people's alert list, but I haven't gotten many reviews from you guys. I really want to hear from you! 


	5. Chapter 4: In Stormy Weather

**Chapter 4 **

**In Stormy Weather**

A drum roll of thunder sounded in the distance, jarring and clashing continuously with the steady rhythm of the splashing rain. A blanket of clouds covered the heavens, which was ever so capricious and whimsical in the spring, always choosing and deciding which dress it was more becoming in: blue or gray.

The dirt roads had long since turned to slosh, and Estel tried unsuccessfully to pull his hood and cloak closer around him with one hand, while leading his horse with the other. As a result, whips of water lashed across his face and the icy hands of the battling winds tangled around his neck, causing him to shiver uncontrollably. Indeed, this unexpected spring shower had already soaked him through, and his mare's insistent snorts and tosses of her head did not help matters.

He could not see three feet in front of his face unless a sudden rapture of lightning tore the sky with blazing fire. He guided himself with the broken images that he got, forming a crude and ill-made map in his mind, constantly stumbling over tree roots and getting a boot stuck in a particularly deep bowl of mud.

Unlike the cleansing spring rains of Rivendell, the dangerous hills around the blessed valley issued ominous billows of mist that ascended and brought about downpours so heavy and freezing, the very air filled with the chilling scent of tainted ice which brought perspiration that refused to evaporate on Estel's neck. Even now, he longed to wash himself, as the putrid rain ran down his face and through his clothing.

He looked around, and saw that even the elves were no longer bringing their faces to the clouds, taking in nature's cleansing. This rain was the exact opposite, and everyone knew it. Cuiladan had returned to the gloom that seemed to have been permeating his soul for the past few days, and even Elladan and Elrohir were no longer playfully joking. Estel's only comfort were the four guards, whose expressions had not changed since their departure. He had finally learned their names, and though they were only as old or younger than the twins, they had a menacing, taciturn air that the boy was loath to invade.

One was Ranien, from Mirkwood, and was always front left, almost like a scout for the small band. He seemed to be more liable to speak than the others, and Estel had found him smiling at the twins' argument when they were leaving Rivendell. He was a tall elf, but wore the strange greens and browns, which seemed to weave back and forth between each other, of the Great Forest, and a ready swordsman; he wielded the blade and bow with equal skill.

Another was Orophin of Lórien, who spoke little of the Common Tongue, and, had Estel not known this before, just as little Sindarin. Of all the aloof guards, he was the coldest, with eyes so blue, the boy swore that they reflected the sky. His hair was a mixture of gold and silver, and Estel found a great interest in this until Orophin, who was the rear guard, caught his eye and glared at him. After that, Estel only wished to never have the elf's eyes on him again.

The other two, Lindir and Gildor Inglorion of the House of Finrod, the boy knew, as Lindir was a resident of Rivendell and had a marvelous voice, as his name entailed, and Gildor was an exile, constantly roaming the western lands of Middle-Earth, but always stopped at Rivendell whenever he passed it. As a child, Estel had heard many of his stories. Gildor took the front right, and Lindir rode behind Estel, but in front of Orophin, constantly humming strange and beautiful tunes that the boy suspected that he was making up as they went along.

It was their second day on the road, and the Hithaeglir, or the Misty Mountains, were looming to their left, curtained with mystery and new adventure for Estel. Despite the rain, the boy had no doubts in his mind that better days were up ahead, and that he would soon find greatness at the end of their journey.

Suddenly, Ranien pulled his horse, a large black stallion, to a stop, and flicked his head towards the mountains. "Did you see--?" A shattering onslaught of thunder drowned out the rest of the question, but Gildor and the twins had already slowed their horses to a walk and caught up with their lead.

Estel pulled his horse next to Cuiladan's and stopped behind the twins, just as the raucous performance by the sky ended. His human eyes scanned the faint line of the mountains before him, but he could see nothing.

"Just an animal running for shelter," his brother decided, nearly shouting to be overheard in the torrent of rain, and began to plod his horse forward again.

"No, wait!" Elladan proclaimed, and just then, Estel saw, quicker than any squirrel or rabbit, a shadow in the moment that the lightning flashed. "There's something there!" Hands flew to sheaths and bows, and the boy let his hood fly into his face as the wind blew from behind him, and copied their examples.

_What evil could be so close to Rivendell_? he wondered, feeling silly with his hand on his new sword, freshly sharpened and lethal. _Most likely, it will just be some traveler or a runaway slave_. Still, his heart beat quickened, and he felt blood rush to his face, as his optimism sprang up, hoping against hope that this would be his first battle.

"Let us get closer," Lindir spoke, his voice melodious even against the raging storm around him. As one, the small band began to creep forward, legs bent, and crouched, low to the ground. Thunder sounded again, and Estel threw his hood back in frustration. The raw elements tore at his face, and he squinted to keep the water out of his eyes.

Lightning flashed once more.

_Thwok_!

Something whizzed by the boy's head and hit one of his packs upon his horse's back. Though trained by elves and was already unusually calm in such violent weather, the mare was not accustomed to being shot at. Wild, high-pitched neighs pierced the skies, and she ripped her nose from Estel's frantic grasps. She continued to scream, and the boy abandoned all thought of battle, turning his back and leaping up to grab his horse's mouth.

On his third try, he succeeded, but more arrows, undeterred by the weather, it seemed, flew by, narrowly missing him and his horse.

"We are under attack!" Elrohir called out unnecessarily, and Estel saw a glimmer of metal as lightning again crackled through the sky. The boy's heart leaped into his throat, even though his mind had already registered this thought, and in vain, he tried to quiet his mare and draw his weapon at the same time.

"_Dartho_!" he cried helplessly to the mare. "_Estelio nin_!"

Amazingly, she suddenly quieted, and lowered her head. Blinking with astonishment at the simpleness of this task, Estel could only hope that his next one would not prove to be any more difficult. Turning away from her, he drew his long bow, and bent it and strung it in one motion, as Elrond had taught him to do long ago. Luckily, the wind was on their side, and above the thunder and pattering of the rain, the boy could hear the faint twanging of bows as the elves and his brothers let loose their ammunition.

Squawks of pain erupted quickly from the distance, and the boy swallowed, thinking of his target. He drew an arrow, aimed it into the sky at an angle, and let loose, not knowing what else to do. His feet seemed to have lost all control of themselves, and he found that all the lessons his bow master had taught him had flown out of his head.

They were under attack. What should he do?

One line came to him. "…_whenever firing long distance, it is best if one is as close to the ground as possible. That way, one has less chance of being a potential target…_"

Thank the Valar for his instructor!

Estel nearly fell to his knees besides Cuiladan, who was inching forward, loosing arrows as he went. The boy tried to follow his brother's example, but found that he could not aim and fire at the same time that he was walking. Also, he was not able to fire the arrows as fast as his brother, and more than half the time, his fingers slipped on the bowstring because they were slick with rain.

"We don't even know who they are!" he wailed to Cuiladan, who's mouth was set in an unmoving line, as he saw from the lightning.

"They are shooting at us," his brother replied, as if that explained everything, and continued to inch forward.

Thunder, then lightning raced through the hills, and Estel finally saw the protruding figures against the mountain. There were at least ten of them, all about the same size, but the light was gone too quickly for him to make out any features. They could have been elf, man, or even dwarf, for all he knew.

Evidently, Elladan seemed to have made out their numbers as well, and shouted, "Advance! We will take them at proximity!" Just as he screamed this, a cry rose up on their own side, and Estel's head shot towards the center of their small formation. One of the elves had been hit.

"Go!" Cuiladan cried, but the boy was already climbing towards the source of the voice, trying to aid whoever had issued it. "No!" his brother grabbed him by the collar with a free hand, and dragged him to his feet. "Leave him for later!"

"But—"

"Go!"

Cuiladan nearly threw him forwards, and Estel stumbled and twisted his right ankle. Waves of hot, shooting pain raced up his leg as he collapsed once more, the razor blades of rain cutting into the skin on his face and head. He clutched at his ankle, but then remembered where he was, and confusedly, dropped his bow and tried to get up.

He was successful, but the others had long since passed him, charging into the territory of their unseen enemy. Estel grit his teeth, unsheathed his sword, and felt its familiar weight in his hands. His fingers found the grooves on the hilt, and suddenly, his sword lessons flooded back into his mind. He unclasped the choking bandolier around his chest that held his quiver of arrows, as he knew he would need it no longer, and steadied himself on his feet. Limping forward, he moved as fast as he could towards the battleground, ignoring the icy streams running down his back and into his boots. His stockings sloshed uncomfortably, and he felt his underwear heavy with rainwater, but he continued to lope forward, his sword held at his side, point faced down.

Everything was happening too fast, and colors and actions seemed enhance tenfold as Estel charged up the hill, closer to the mountains. The interval between the lightning and the thunder had grown so close together that they chased each other incessantly, making the boy's head spin.

Flash. _BOOM!_

The enemy seemed to be coming closer.

Flash. _BOOM!_

He could see the twins and Cuiladan way before him, three of the guards with them.

Flash. _BOOM!_

The enemy was racing down the hill towards them!

Estel did not know when he came upon his first Orc, but there he was, the eerie, blue lights flashing about him, with two of the foul, small creatures coming at him with their scimitars and stolen weapons. He never got a good look at their faces. His eyes seemed to only focus on his sword, and their weapons, as thunder and the roar of the rain hitting the uneven ground swept through his senses.

The blood rushed past his ears at his first parry, making even the boisterous storm grow faint. His breath came in quick, shallow gasps, and his fingers were slippery with sweat and rain. One of the Orcs screeched in anger and leaped nearly half its height into the air, coming down at Estel with alarming dexterity. Its arms were outstretched, the metal of the blade flashing in the lightning, and the boy watched, his mouth half open with horror, as it descended in uncanny slow motion.

Screaming with both fear and a touch of madness, Estel waved his weapon wildly, his feet tangled in a mass of bootlaces, and thrust the sword upward without thinking, his arms weighed down by the gallons of water that dripped from his sleeves.

A spine-chilling, foreign scream pierced the night air, and Estel joined it as a lance of hot pain lashed down the side of his arm. His own blood mixed with the rain and the warm liquid dripping down his sword and flowing over his hands, and he screamed again, dropping his weapon.

Thunder. Lightning.

He did not see the Orc fall.

Another at his right.

The sky lit up with raging fire, and it was only then that the boy realized that the storm was directly overhead. Lightning struck the ground only a few hundred paces to his left, and he jumped right, rolling on the ground at his adversary, weaponless. His sword arm was numb from the cold, and the only feeling came from the steady dripping of the warm liquid inside of him out onto the grass and mud. Blinded by the whiteness, he felt the unbearable heat wash over him, and he shut his eyes, expecting at any moment for a blast of lightning or the bite of his foe's scimitar in his flesh.

Nothing came, and completely soaked and saturated with mud, Estel opened his eyes, clutching his right arm with his left.

The sky gave an outline of his swarthy, bandy-legged enemy, holding a wicked-looking weapon overhand, ready to pierce it through his belly.

Fear jolted through the boy's heart, and spread down to his abdomen, squeezing and expanding like rubber. He tasted bile, and his mind went blank. If he did not do something soon, his heart would leap out of his throat!

He had no sword. The thing would kill him. He was too young. He could not die. He promised his mother. Where would he get a weapon? How could he survive? He _needed _a weapon…

_ELLADAN'S DAGGER!_

The image of his brother's birthday gift swam through his bleary mind, and he saw the elegant handle, carved with platinum and entwined with leather trailing along the back of his brain. The blade was as long as his hand splayed out, lethal, and sharpened to a barely-visible cutting edge. It was blessed with elven magic and glowed with internal fire…

_Where was it_?

He fumbled hopeless at his belt, as the Orc brought down its weapon. Estel's body reacted without thinking, and, hands still at his belt with his elbows spread open like a duck, he rolled away, hitting the nerve in his arm, and then cutting his wound on a jagged rock that stuck out of the ground.

He heard the chink of the metal slide through the ground, only a finger-length away from his head. The Orc's frustrated cry rose through the air, collaborating with the angry screams of the storm.

Adrenaline coursed through his veins, and Estel felt his mind suddenly clear. The dagger was not at his belt. He had it in his ankle sheath. But the Orc was already within a few paces of him, he was sure, though he could not see it, and there he was, lying helplessly on the ground, the storm raging around him, and covered in mud…

_That was it_! He was covered in mud. The Orc could no more see him that he it.

_Stay still, Estel_, he told himself, and tried to crouch, getting his knees to his chest so he could withdraw the dagger. It was not much use against a sword, but at least he would not be completely weaponless.

Fumbling with his soggy leggings that clung stubbornly to his legs, he scanned the area before his eyes, hoping that lightning would flash so he could see the presence of his foe. He could hear nothing except the storm and thunder, and he did not know where any of the others were. The twins had long since stopped shouting orders for fear of giving away their position, so here he was: alone.

_I cannot think about that now_! Estel screamed mentally, and finally pulled his leggings from his boot, located the sheath of the dagger, and pulled it out unceremoniously. The cutting edge split the bottom of his pant leg and he cursed loudly, unafraid that anyone would hear him over the sound of the rain.

He clutched at his chest, muffling the beat of his heart, for if anything else, he was afraid that it would lead him to his discovery. Never had he ever seen or been through anything like this. He wanted out. This was not what adventure was supposed to be about! The dark, the rain, and the cold… none of this was mentioned by his brothers or by the stories he read.

And heroes always fought standing up. None of them crouched, unnoted in the mud, filthy and wet. He tried to get up, but something icy and clammy choked his throat and would not let him up. Light-headed, he tore at the thing around his neck, and only then, realized that it was his own cloak. His eyes nearly rolling into the back of his head for the want of air, he clumsily tore the wet cloth, and threw it from his body.

A great sense of lightness came to him, and he felt free, away from his heavy cloak.

Lightning flashed again.

The other Orc was nowhere in sight.

Estel did not know whether to be relieved or afraid, and stepped forward cautiously.

Only then did he realize that he still had a twisted ankle and he cried out involuntarily. Instantly, thunder sounded, and blood rushed past his ears as he stumbled again and fell.

A swiping sound came over his head, and tears stung his eyes as he screamed again. A splitting pain issued from the back of his head, and he brought a hand up to his skull, catching the crimson fountain that was dribbling out of his head.

So much blood…

He had to be dying!

He spun like a drunkard, staggering and ignoring the pain in his ankle. One hand brandished elven dagger with no skill whatsoever, and he stabbed the air around him like a madman.

His head spun like a top. The little that he could see was starting to dim. He was not sure when he wounded the Orc, but suddenly, he was bathed in a warm and sticky liquid.

Had he severed an artery?

Nausea swept through him, and shuddering, he fell to his knees, hurling the contents of his stomach.

Something hit him over the head, and he remembered nothing else.

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**Thanks for reviewing, everyone! However, due to the fact that I will have to be in DTASC for this month, I will not be updating until November. I hope you enjoy this chapter and keep reviewing!**


	6. Chapter 5: Reflections and Discovery

**Chapter 5 **

**Reflections And Discovery**

Estel opened his eyes blearily to a humid and bright sunset. Someone was leaning over him, gently shaking his shoulders, trying to wake him. Stubbornly, he tried to push his rescuer away, as a pounding migraine had already taken over his head. He was sure that if he moved anymore, he was going to again his empty his already vacant stomach.

"Estel, it's me!" a familiar voice said gently, trying to stop his fighting. It was Cuiladan. Slowly, Estel tried to raise his head.

The setting sun burned at his squinting eyes, and he raised a shaking hand to block it. A shadow suddenly leaned over him, and he breathed a sigh of relief at the blessed dark. As he tried to sit up, waves of nausea and light-headedness washed through him, and he collapsed, again, into the arms of his brother. Bringing another hand to his head, he felt the thick, muslin cloth, like a turban, wrapped around his head. One side was hard and crusted.

"Where…where am I?" were the first, unthinking words out of his mouth.

"Do not talk," Cuiladan's soothing voice came like buttermilk in a soft churn. "Drink this first." The wooden head of a water skin was shoved between his teeth, and he tipped his head back. A wonderfully warm, tingling feeling ran across his tongue, slightly stinging with sweet carbonation, and burned his throat with soft flames as he swallowed.

His eyelids flew open, and his head suddenly cleared, as he sat up, once again alert. A scan around him, showed that he was still at the foot of the Misty Mountains, and it was Elrohir who had stood in the way of the sun.

"Ah, the miracles of _miruvor_," the elf smiled, and Estel knew at once that everything was fine. Though usually nothing could get in the way of Elrohir's sarcasm, it was the first thing to go when disaster occurred.

"Thank you. How long was I unconscious?" the boy asked, struggling to his feet, and found that he was still not yet steady.

"Judging by your position," Cuiladan raised an eyebrow, smiling. "Only a stripe of a candle. I know killing your first Orc is exciting, _gwador_, but really. You need not take off an article of clothing for every step you take. One would have thought you were after a woman."

The boy looked to the ground, and blushed when he saw that his brother was correct. He had torn off his cloak when it had strangled him, and not far off, were his quiver of arrows and a bow. No one had bothered to clean up after him, and he decided that they must not have thought him seriously injured.

"Now hold still," Elrohir commented, producing a clean bandage from one of the horse's packages. Elladan was leading the horse and stopped it so his brother could obtain what he needed from her back. Estel was glad to see that it was his mare and that she had come to no harm during the fray. He had to give her more credit than just being a dumb burden of beast next time. "That cut on the back of your head looks like it's been through Dol Guldur and back."

Elladan scowled and his dark head turned towards his brother's direction. "Speak not of Dol Guldur with such frivolity, _gwador_," he warned his twin.

The other turned as well and spoke in softly, "The only reason people shudder at that name is _because _they dare not speak of it with frivolity. You and I have both been there, Elladan. It is dreadful, yes, but the only thing to fear is fear itself."

Estel stared, awed at this conversation. Though he could barely grasp it, he knew marginally where Dol Guldur was and of the evil that lived there. However, his brothers seemed to be at a point where they did not agree (a rare occasion with the twins), and even Cuiladan seemed uncomfortable as the two stared at each other.

"Being wary still saves your skin," Elladan shot back.

"But being overly cautious never gets you anywhere," Elrohir told him, completely forgetting about the bandage that he was going to tie around Estel's head, and turned away. "It is time that we face what is at hand and look fear in the eye."

The other left his horse and walked around to face his brother again. "And that is why we are here. That is where we are going." Estel and Cuiladan exchanged a look, and from the older one's exasperated face, the boy could tell that he had seen this argument before.

Cuiladan cleared his throat, and snatched the bandage out of Elrohir's hand, and the twins stirred, as if coming out of a reverie. "Come, Estel," he said pointedly, wounding the bandage around his head almost viciously. "You are not injured. We will clean up this field of battle."

Cuiladan led the boy away with questions spinning in his mind, though he was not sorry to see the back of the arguing twins. They usually understood each other so well that it was a phenomenon to see them fight, but when it actually happened, Estel felt ill at ease.

Following his brother across the vast, cold fields before the Misty Mountains, the boy finally opened his mouth. "What was that--?"

However, Cuiladan did not let him finish before he answered. "You must understand why you are coming with us and our destination," he said. He paused, not facing his brother, and picked up Estel's cloak from the ground. The boy thought he saw his hands shaking, and looked around for the other elves. They were nowhere to be seen.

"We are going to Dol Guldur, are we not?" Estel asked. "I thought you had unfinished business there."

Cuiladan came up again and handed Estel's cloak back to him. He put it on, and immediately felt warmth running down his back. "You are just echoing what you have heard from _ada_," his brother said. "In truth, there is more to it than that. There is a new evil growing in southern Mirkwood, and we think we know what its purpose is."

Estel furrowed his brows and followed his brother farther down the hill, towards his lost quiver of arrows. "And what's that?" he inquired, feeling slightly more important, now that his brother felt him old enough to be truthful with him.

"You remember the histories of Melkor and how he fell from the Valar?" Cuiladan asked, and Estel nodded furtively. Of course he knew it. Everyone who ever studied history knew this as a fact. "Then you also must know that he was destroyed." The boy nodded again. "But when he was, some of his evil servants still lingered, and they began to try and find more power for themselves."

"You mean Sauron?" Estel asked. "He was destroyed by Isildur at the ending of the Second Age. His ring is lost."

His brother stopped in his footsteps and turned to his brother, his handsome features set in hard lines. Though Estel was taller, he felt that his brother looked much older and wiser than himself. Perhaps the recent scrimmage had added that many years onto him. "The ring was lost, but not unmade," Cuiladan said slowly. "That means that Sauron was thrown from power, but not destroyed." The boy waited for more, but none came, and his brother turned and began to march down the hill again.

It was not until that Estel had repacked his bow and arrows that he began again.

"Sauron has been collecting his former power and trying to find the Ring again. But he knows that he cannot have his old stronghold in Mordor," Cuiladan said. "In a way, he dares not go back. He is afraid of the shadows of his old master. So instead, he has decided to build another under the eaves of Mirkwood, in Dol Guldur."

Estel raised an eyebrow. He had not known this, though he had some vague idea that there was something not quite right with southern tips of the Great Forest. No one in Rivendell had been able to say Dol Guldur without first looking heavenward or shuddering afterward. "And _ada_ wishes for us to go and destroy this power?" he asked, his mind whirring. "A small band like us, made up of eight people?"

Cuiladan gave him a small and dry smile. "Not to destroy him," he answered. "Directly… that is. That would take another war and hundreds of thousands of lives. No. Possibly, it would take another alliance of elves and men, and Middle-Earth cannot afford that."

Estel bit his bottom lip and struggled to keep up with his brothers as the four guards came into view. They were standing next to their respective horses, and from a distance, it seemed that Lindir was bearing a new white bandage along his right upper arm. "Then, we must destroy him _indirectly_?" the boy asked, hardly comprehending the words coming out of his own mouth.

"Exactly," his brother answered. "It takes time, and I believe that we will be making more than just one journey to Mirkwood in the next few years."

"And what do you plan to do?" the boy asked eagerly, but his brother did not answer.

When questioned again, he only said, "Think Estel. What are we to do when we only have six elves and two men, and the Shadow has a force of thousands of Orcs?"

The boy could not imagine what it was, but as he approached and saw that not only was a bandage on Lindir's arm, but encased in a sling as well he felt much better about fainting after killing his first Orc. As that information dawned on him again, he almost smiled. He had matched Cuiladan. His brother had killed his first Orc at nineteen, and so had he! Though, of course, Cuiladan probably faced that death with contempt and an unmoving heart. There was no way that he would have fainted and stripped as if there was no tomorrow.

At this thought, Estel blushed again, and turned away when he saw that his brother was looking.

"Do not be ashamed of how you reacted to the battle," Cuiladan said with a smile, and Estel jumped. He had no idea how his brother could read his mind. At this, Cuiladan laughed and unsettled the boy even more. "You're thinking about how I can read your mind. Let me tell you, Estel: Elladan and Elrohir are not the only people in the world who can communicate their thoughts telepathically. We are linked through flesh and blood after all."

Before he could finish what he was saying, Ranien approached the two, his golden hair glistening in the sunset. "Everyone within a mile can tell that there has been a battle here. We had better start looking through the enemy's packs and seeing what it was they were after."

As Estel worked his brother's words over in his head, Cuiladan cocked his head and seemed to be thinking. "They are Moria Orcs," he replied. "I can tell from their stature and size. They always follow travelers and try to raid them as they pass through these parts, but you are right. There is no harm in looking. We will be right with you."

Ranien gave a curt nod and bowed in the strange way of wood elves, but Estel was sure that he saw a gleam of friendliness in his eyes. Even though he was inexperienced, the boy wished to come to better terms with the elf. If all wood elves were as reliable and kind as Ranien, then Mirkwood would hardly have been the place for an invasion of evil.

However, Estel had also discerned something from the sentences that his brother had said to him before. "Why do you say I should not be ashamed of my reactions to the battle?" he inquired.

Cuiladan turned to him with some surprise in his eyes. "Well, why should you be?"

Estel shrugged and folded his arms. "I suppose because I fainted and… well… Cuiladan… for a second before I killed it, I… I felt sorry for it. I don't know how to express this, but…I… I knew that it was an Orc and it is an abomination to the face of this earth, but… it took… it took much more than just a sword thrust for me to kill it."

The boy had expected a look of contempt and haughtiness from his brother, but never was he ready for a soft glimmer of respect and awe in Cuiladan's eyes. "You are wise to have felt that way," he told him. "I have learned that only fools do not feel empathy for their enemy. Let me guess. You had a thought that it was not the Orc's fault for being an Orc, and that you felt horrible for having to kill it because that was what it was, am I correct?"

Estel nodded wordlessly.

"Then that is what distinguishes you from an Orc, Estel," Cuiladan said. "To kill and be heartless about it, to have no feelings for your enemy… that is when you are no longer better than the lowest Orc. To still have a heart… to still _feel_, Estel, is what makes you human. And as for fainting… well…"

His brother gave a low laugh, but Estel heard no derision in it. As he prodded, Cuiladan bit his bottom lip (a gesture Estel realized that they both had in common) and muttered something inaudible.

"What?"

In a voice barely higher than a whisper, Cuiladan leaned in, his face tomato-red, and Estel heard, "At least you did not wet your pants as you did so."

Before he could react, Ranien's voice came from the other side of the small hill, "There is something here, and it is moving. Shall we kill it?" Estel had never seen Cuiladan move so fast, but in his heart, he could not help but laugh. He felt much better about himself as he followed his brother across the fields in the dying sunlight towards the guards.

Over the hill, Estel squinted down at the place where the guards were gathered. Between them, what seemed like an old gray sack was moving. As he watched, one of the guards used the point of a sword to throw aside one end of the squirming bundle of rags, and revealed, as it seemed to the boy, skin.

The boy walked closer, but still, the skin did not become clear, and it was then that he realized that it was because the body was so covered in dirt that everything was obscured. He watched, half with astonishment and half with disgust, as a figure with long, dark hair emerged from the bundle.

Mud layered upon mud, and where cloth ended and skin began was indeterminable. Hair color was indecisive, as it was covered by so much dust and debris that a good washing could have revealed gold, red, or black. A pair of wide, brown eyes stared back at the boy, and Estel found himself looking upon the ugliest and dirtiest woman he had ever seen in his life.

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	7. Chapter 6: A Game of Chance

**Another slow update. I'm sorry, but all yesterday, I was at DTASC and singing and acting until my voice was hoarse. I saw some really great musical scenes and I can't believe that high school kids could come up with stuff like that! So, just to those that go to DTASC, great job everybody! **

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Chapter 6

**A Game of Chance**

"A spy?" Orophin asked in Sindarin, his soft voice arrogant. One look at the woman should have answered his question, and as a custom of all the elves of the Golden Woods, it was only acceptable in society to be clean. More filth could be seen on her face than skin, and it appeared that she was dressed in a rough-clothed sack. Estel wanted to wrinkle his nose at the smell that rolled off of her, but then, he saw the sympathetic look in Cuiladan's eyes.

"More like a prisoner than anything," Lindir answered the elf in the same tongue so the woman could not understand. "And not likely to be a friend of the Orcs that have treated her that way." As the elves spoke, the woman stood her ground, arms folded in front of her, and stared back with narrowed, icy eyes, almost daring them to hurt her.

The boy could not help but wonder, _What had the Orcs done to her_?

Cuiladan was not looking at her with contempt, and he realized that he would be wrong to do so. This woman could not help looking the way she did. If she had been dressed in the ethereal, beautiful dresses of the elven maids, would he have looked at her differently?

Estel's gaze traveled down the length of her dirty arm, and only then did he see, knotted in with her dripping and ragged sleeves, were the remnants of a sturdy rope. The rain had swollen the material until it choked the woman's hands, and as he looked, he saw that her fingers were nearly purple from the loss of circulation and the cold.

"Whoever she is, we can question her after we get her into warm clothes and untie her," Cuiladan spoke up, almost echoing Estel's thoughts. "No doubt, she is wet and dying of hunger." Without another word, he walked over and began to work on the complex knots on her wrists with his dagger. "Estel," he said, as he seemed to remember something. "Run for Elladan and Elrohir. Tell them we have a prisoner."

After scouring the lands for any other traces of a battle, the elves and two men decided that they could travel no further with the oncoming night. The cold was already beginning to set in, and the horses could easily stumble and break a leg on the rocky and hilly terrain in the dark.

There were no rivers or ponds this close to the Misty Mountains for the woman to wash in, but the looming peaks creating puddles and valleys at their feet, where plenty of rainwater had been caught. Cuiladan offered some of his spare clothes fro the woman, but it was clear that he was too bulky for his clothing to fit on such a thing and scrawny figure. In the end, Ranien volunteered a shirt and Lindir a pair of leggings; both elves were willowy enough to nearly be the prisoner's size.

In broken Common and flurries of sign language, she had indicated that she was of Rohan and was a captive of some Orcs. Estel assumed that Orcs traded prisoners when it pleased them, and that was how she got the Hithaeglir in such a short period of time.

With pantomime and a few simple words, Cuiladan told her to wash and dress, and when she understood, at first with some disbelief, tears flood her eyes. In some words of Rohirrim and Common, she thanked him profusely and threw her arms around him. Estel guessed that she had not gotten a chance to bathe while in the captivity of the Orcs. It would explain the smell and dirt.

After disentangling himself from the dirty, and now weeping, slave, Cuiladan came to join the rest of the small band. They all huddled in a circle, afraid to light a fire, and many looked towards the blood red outlines of clouds in the west. It was impossible to find a dry spot after the thunderstorm, and Estel found, with distaste, that he had chosen to sit right on top of a marsh.

As a squelch emitted from the seat of his pants coming into contact with the watery island, he wrinkled his nose and tried to move his cloak under him. So busy was he with this that he did not notice the long silence that had fallen over the group.

"How is your arm, Lindir?" Cuiladan shifted uneasily and tried to strike up conversation. Estel gathered from his voice that he was preoccupied and his mind was elsewhere.

"I shall be able to aim and shoot in a few days," the elf answered. "It was only a knick of muscle and nerve. Wielding a sword may be more difficult." The boy winced, knowing how much it must hurt to inure a nerve. It explained the arm cast.

A resounding silence that even he noticed this time, again fell, and he looked back and for the between the elves' marble expressions and Cuiladan's look of…dreaminess. It was one Estel had never seen on his brother's face before and was strange, though pleasant to see. What was on his mind?

Cuiladan never daydreamed. If anything, he was always rooted to the earth. Perhaps—

"Cuiladan," Elladan's voice was hard as he spoke in the Common Tongue. "We will have to question and dispose of the slave."

The thin lines on the man's brow hardened. "Dispose?" he said, nearly spitting the word. "Why? Questioning, I can understand, but dispose? She is an innocent! She did not choose for this."

_They wanted to kill her_! Estel realized with horror. _Elladan wants to kill her!_ He felt sick at the very thought and could not imagine how his brother could do such a thing.

"It was not her choice to begin with," the oldest elf spoke again. "She knows were we are. We cannot just let her leave. She will remember our faces. She will remember _your_ face, Cuiladan, and it is not so different from your father's that someone smart could not put two and two together."

Cuiladan rubbed a hand over his beard, but his face was grim. "She is a slave. Slaves don't know." Elladan opened his mouth, but Elrohir cut in.

"I think you are overreacting, _gwador_," he said quietly. "She is only a Rohirrim, slave, as Cuiladan said before. Question her and let her go. What are the chances she will remember and say anything?"

Elldan's mouth remained firm, and his eyes narrowed slightly. "And if she were not a slave? What if she was a spy, an agent, an assassin sent to murder us?"

Gildor, who had been translating the conversation into quiet Sindarin for Orophin, shot his head up. For a moment, he looked as a great elf lord should, even in exile: proud, venerable… arrogant. Then, his features relaxed and he spoke the Silver Tongue with his High Elven accent, "Think, Elladan. What are the chances of that?"

"She is of _Rohan_, Gildor!" the other elf interjected, as if that explained everything. "Have you forgotten?"

"What are the chances?" Estel finally found his voice. "If she was, how could she rely on Orcs to bring her to us? More importantly, how did she know of us?"

His oldest brother shook his head. "She is of Rohan. I do not trust that land," he said bitterly. The others sat, motionless, except the older man, who was still biting his lower lip and stroking his beard. The sun had gone, and darkness had settled. "Thengel, their king has always longed for more power than he has, and that is a dangerous thing. We cannot underestimate him."

Estel's furrowed his brows, and the argument continued. But, not even Elladan could further his point with Gildor, Cuiladan, and Elrohir against him. In the end, he gave in, but not willingly. The woman would travel with them, and, if there was time, they would send her back to Rohan, if they were still permitted to enter that land, for Thengel had not been on friendly relations with Elrond.

"Well, she is coming back, anyway," Elladan said, his features harder than marble. Indeed, he was correct. A dark form could be seen against the stars and the outline of the mountain as the slave drew near, clean, from her makeshift bath. "You shall see what will happen. Remember. I was against this. You shall see. And you will regret."

**TBC..**

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**Well, another chapter done. Thank you viggomaniac and Syen for leaving such long reviews! They're always fun to read, and I love the feedback. If there's anything I should know or be aware of, please tell me! Keep reviewing please!**


	8. Chapter 7: The Secrets of the Spring

**Hey, thanks for the reviews, Syen, Imaginigma, Hazle Silver, ****mystic angel of the tarit** **viggomaniac, Iwishchan, ****and grumpy! I only read them today, but they really inspired me! Please keep reviewing!**

**Sorry for this late update again. I got my internet taken away from me, and my school play is in a week. My schedule's very hectic right now, but I will try and write whenever I can. But anyway, enjoy, and I hope you review!

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**Chapter 7**

**The Secrets of the Spring**

That night, under the clear stars and inky sky, Cuiladan finally revealed his gift for Estel that he had mentioned what seemed like an age ago. The others were asleep some ways off, and the horses blocked the two brothers from the girl and the elves.

"I was supposed to have given this to you on your birthday, but... well… too many things happened that day, and problems continued to mount. And now, we have found a girl from Rohan. I thought I had better give this to you now before I forget once more," Cuiladan explained to his brother, and presented him with a thin, brown package.

Estel, who had completely forgotten about his brother's promise of a birthday present, smiled and received it. "Thank you," he answered, and smiled, surprised at the weight of the bag.

He sat, weighing the package in his hands and furrowing his brows for so long that Cuiladan asked, "Will you not open it? It will go well with the gift _ada_ gave you before the journey."

Carefully, the boy unwrapped the plain brown paper, easing out the creases as if he were ironing a dress shirt. "What did _ada_ give me?" he asked aloud, as he unfolded the last of the paper and gasped. Before his eyes was a belt of fine, oiled, black leather, coiled in into perfection with its head at its center. Estel unrolled this, and found that it was studded with tiny stars of pure white gold. Its latch and buckle was made of lighter, yet more beautiful metal.

Mithril.

"You have not opened _ada_'s present?" Cuiladan exclaimed.

"I have not had the time, I guess," Estel replied, and could not help but add a bitter tone to his voice. He remembered how Elrond had given him the package and had walked off without saying a word. But he could not think of that now. "Oh, Cuiladan, money could not have bought this. I'm only the youngest son of Elrond. This… this would look ridiculous on me!"

His older brother laughed and replied, "That is only because you have not seen _ada_'s present. Where is it?"

"On my horse, in a bag."

"Bring it and open it. Then you shall realize why my gift is appropriate."

Estel obediently went to retrieve the other package, all the time imagining what could possibly justify the beautiful belt Cuiladan had given him. There was _mithril_ on the belt! Even the dwarves found it hard to mine, and the only great lords and ladies owned it. He was, at most, an exiled prince of the Westernesse, a mere Dunadan, doomed to never be able to set foot in Gondor.

Estel brought the strangely light bundle to his brother, and with the same care, opened it. His eyes were wider and his mouth bigger than when he saw Cuiladan's gift. "This… this is too much!" he cried. Before him, was a feather-light mithril coat of mail, fitting like a shirt, yet able to turn swords. Below that was black, silky uniform of the same sort, undoubtedly for a warrior. Crested on it, with mithril thread, was white tree with seven stars circling it. He had seen it somewhere before.

"The uniform of the White City," his brother told him quietly. "A memory of the greatness of Gondor before the days of the stewards." The brothers looked into each other's eyes, and Estel saw there a gleam of light in Cuildan's gray eyes that he had not seen before. "One day, one of us will restore that greatness."

Both looked at the cool, silvery mail and the velvet uniform with awe and reverence, thinking of the days of their ancestors, when great men sat upon the throne of Gondor.

Estel, staring at the mithril stars upon the black cloth, just like the real stars in the darkened skies above, could almost see Isildur, wearing the same uniform, face blackened by battle and the ash of the fiery mountain, dangling the legendary ring in front of him. Was he, a noble man that he was, wearing this same pattern when he suddenly decided that he must have the Ring for himself? Despite all of _ada_'s warnings, was he wearing this when he took the Ring to be his? Was he wearing this when he was killed by Orcs and thrown into the Anduin?

At this thought, the boy felt bile tinge is palate, and quickly looked up from the soft uniform. "_You_ will restore that greatness," he said firmly, and pushed the belt, mail, and uniform towards Cuiladan without any reluctance. "You should have this."

The other's gaze followed the moved items, and for what seemed like eternity, no one spoke. The elder's hand suddenly came forward and hovered above the three things, but just as quickly, he made a fist and withdrew his arm.

"No," he told Estel, raising his eyes. "I gave you the belt and _ada_ gave you these things for a reason. You must take them."

The boy shook his head. "But if you become king, will you take them?"

Cuiladan closed his eyes and then opened them slowly, as if thinking hard and suppressing a feeling. Breathing in deeply he answered, "We will make a pact. Whoever becomes king will have these things. But because _ada_ gave these things to you, keep them for now. Besides, our names…"

He trailed off, leaving Estel waiting.

"Our names?" he prompted.

"Well, our names are not actually Cuiladan and Estel. Those are just…names that _naneth_ and _ada_ made to make sure that we did not even know who we were," Cuiladan told Estel. "Think of it. 'Cuildadan.' It means 'life of man.' And 'Estel…' it means 'hope.'" His brother smiled and gave out a dry laugh as he looked back down at the three items. "They believe that we are the life and hope of man, Estel."

Estel sat back stunned. He could imagine anyone calling him anything but "Estel," and bit his bottom lip. If he had another name, he knew that he would never answer to it. "Then," he asked hoarsely, licking his lips, "what are our real names?"

"That, I think," Cuiladan replied, "I will save for another night."

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On the Hithaeglir, the days were getting steadily getting longer and milder, and the weather became almost tolerable. The middle of the fourth month of the year had come and the early spring showers were giving way to sunshine and flowers. 

Up until now, Elladan's prophecy about the slave girl had not been fulfilled, and the rest of the company had found her tolerable. Indeed, Cuiladan had even found a special friendship with her. He told them that her name was Eordhe, meaning "Earth" in their language. It was a common name, and even more so for a slave, but other than that, she would not reveal any more information. Estel watched uneasily as the woman and his brother became closer and closer, until it seemed that Cuiladan was with her more than he was with his brothers.

Orophin and Gildor had already begun to whisper, and Lindir, known for his voice, had begun to hum love songs each time the two passed. Ranien, though too polite to say anything, raised both eyebrows each time the couple passed, and seemed to have lent an ear to Orophin and Gildor.

Elladan, for once, was no the one alarmed and panicking. "It will pass," he said reassuringly, when he saw Estel gazing worriedly at the two.

After the slave had washed herself, she was not as ugly as Estel had thought. True, she was not beautiful, as the elven maidens in Rivendell had been, but then, elves had an ethereal beauty that humans could never achieve. However, she was pretty, with brownish copper hair and a pair of large, brown eyes. Her skin was olive, tanned, no doubt, by the Rohirrim sun. It was a simple, bovine beauty that she possessed, and it could be seen that intelligence, though not knowledge, was part of her thin tenure of attributes. Over the few weeks, she had learned a few more words of Common so that her speech was almost recognizable and seldom did she have to fall back into her own tongue.

Cuiladan seemed captivated.

"Do not worry," Elladan continued. "Cuiladan is young. His heart will not settle on one girl." He then went back to his maps, leaving the boy uneasy and suspicious. Elladan seemed too unconcerned for their brother's love life. It seemed as if he knew more than anyone else did, and that there would be a reason Cuiladan would stop his infatuation with this Eordhe.

Elrohir, on the other hand, was furious. The young man overheard them speaking quickly and softly in Quenya so the Silvan Elves would not understand. In any case, neither Lindir and Gildor, or Ranien and Orophin were in the proximity. "For the love of the Valar, Elladan! He is the exiled heir to the throne of Gondor! Restoring him back to his rightful place is going to be hard enough, not to mention putting a bastard queen up there with him!"

Estel heard his oldest brother making hushing sounds. "He is not going to marry the first girl he meets," he reassured quietly. "It is spring. She is the only woman around his age. At the next place we stop, he will forget her."

Elrohir snorted. "An illegitimate child is hardly any better."

"I have heard nothing," Elladan replied dryly, and that was all Estel heard, for by this time, he had gasped so loudly that he was soon found out.

Other than that, their journey over the Hithaeglir was rather peaceful, and the boy did not know whether he was glad or not that no Orcs or other creatures came to attack them.

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Gilraen laid in her room, perspiring and tossing in her sleep. Fine wrinkles that had not been there before could be seen on her forehead and under her eyes. The departure of her two only sons had not been beneficial to her already fragile health, and now, in the pits of illness, she was thin and drawn. In her white nightgown, she seemed more ghostly than human. 

Elrond looked up from the sick woman and shook his head, trying to clear his mind of the images Gilraen spoke of. In her line, ran the gift of foresight, and she had _seen_. In a frenzy, she had described the events that even he could not foresee to him, and then fell back, exhausted from her exertion. The elf did not know why he had sent all of his sons on this. Elladan and Elrohir, he was not worried about. They knew the ways of the world and could cope. He had faith that they would come back to him. He had not yet seen death in their future.

But Cuiladan and Estel…

Both were so young, and had he known what they were about to face, he would never have sent them on this journey. Cuiladan must be protected, yet how could he be shielded and yet be a king that knew his people's plights? The only way was to make him a commoner and give him courage by testing him. Elladan and Elrohir could protect him, but if they were separated?

And Estel… he was only a child! A mere boy of nineteen. This would be his first experience of the world. He knew nothing! He could not survive by himself out there. And now, their mother was near death.

Sighing, Elrond cursed under his breath, and braced himself for another trial to remove the illness from Gilraen's body.

But as he looked, the woman became still and her lips parted. Her eyes moved under their lids, as they do when one is in deep sleep. "Cuiladan… Estel…" she murmured, her throat already ragged from coughing. Somehow, the hoarse words came to only be more terrifying. "The life and hope of man…Life is gone… only hope remains…"

**TBC...**

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**Please review! Even if you didn't like it, at least give me some suggestions. If you review, I promise to get the next chapter up sooner... (It's because I feel loved... :) )**


	9. Chapter 8: Letters of the Tengwar

**Again, sorry for not updating for so long. My school play is on this week, and if you've been reading my author's notes, you'll know that I'm an avid drama freak, and of course, I'm involved in it. (I haven't gotten any homework done! Wah!) So, please wait patiently for the next update, because that one might be a little late in the coming too. **

**I'm sorry, but hopefully, this will cheer you up...

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Chapter 8

**Letters of the Tengwar**

As night fell, the travelers slowed their hiking to a halt. Rain was rarer now, and judging by the brilliant stars and full moon, no tents would be needed that night. Though spring had overtaken the cantankerous Misty Mountains, a chilly wind still blew, and Eordhe pulled the spare cloak tighter around her shoulders. She was thin after the wearying journey with the Orcs and the unrelenting zephyrs seemed to blow through her fragile frame.

Watching the elves, Estel, and Cuiladan spread the blankets for the night, Eordhe felt the square, hard object in her right pocket with a trembling hand, and then the lighter, round bottle in her left. The familiarity from these objects against the wilderness reassured her, and she looked towards the southwest. The people of Rohan and Gondor had long since gone to bed.

Her gaze fell on Cuiladan, and she felt her heart leap in a way that she could only remember once before… _No_! she admonished herself silently. Already, an aching throb was spreading across her chest, filling the pits of her belly with ice. She must not think of that, for it would bring anguish and a feeling too deep to match with this simple, quiet character she had made for herself. She must remain clam. She could not love Cuiladan except as Eordhe.

A good spy never broke cover.

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She waited until most of the party had climbed into bedrolls. She made as if she was going to do so as well, but at the last minute, gestured in Rohirrim and blushingly in Common that she had to relieve herself. No one would inquire further on this subject, and for once, she was glad she was a woman. Unable to repress a smirk, she nearly turned away with a royal air.

Remembering suddenly, she ducked her head in apology as any salve would, and did her best to scuttle to the surrounding bushes. She paused and looked over the thick green leaves, squatting. Elladan and Elrohir were speaking and had their heads close together.

One of her hands dug hatefully into the dirt beneath her and she turned her head, never leaving the twins with her eyes.

She knew them. Who did not?

The famous sons of Elrond, known for their pursuits and murders of bands of Orcs that had supposedly tortured their mother into leaving the shores of Middle-Earth. She gripped the loose, barren soil in one hand, clench her nails into it, pushing the anger in her heart into the earth.

She left them to their own devices.

"One more day is my estimate," Ranien, the Mirkwood elf, was saying. Orophin, Gildor, and Lindir, who had become good friends during her travels with them, were now each in their separate blankets. She did not have to worry about Orophin and Lindir. Gildor, perhaps. An elf lord of his standing could not be underestimated. The others would have to be reckon with.

And there was Cuiladan and Estel. One was showing something to the other.

Eordhe narrowed her eyes. Something about the boy, Estel, had always made her uneasy. Every time she was with Cuiladan, whether she was standing close enough to smell his piney scent, bring his soft lips to hers, or running a hand through his unruly mass of beautiful brown hair, she could feel Estel's eyes on her back.

But he was not looking for her now. She would not be missed.

Treading with the points of her toes, she moved through the newly grown bushes with the stealth of a professional. She should be, she realized. She had, after all, watched trained men become assassins all her life.

Steadily, she moved away from the campsite with only the moon and stars to guide her. Picking her spot, she slowly removed the leather bound book, much too expensive looking next to her slave garb, and the bottle of ink and quill from her skirt's wide pockets.

Laying them next to a bush she used for cover, she made sure her entire book, with it s fresh white pages, were entirely in the moonlight. Then, removing the stopper on the bottle, Eordhe dipped the quill into the quill and flipped to the last ink-filled page. Smiling, she looked proudly at her information addressed to her lord. At last, she brought the quill to the page and scratched out everything she had learned that day.

She wrote quickly in elven script, but her words were in Common. Her own devised short-hand made sure that even if this journal fell into the wrong hands, only a genius cryptologist would be able to decipher it. Quickly, she laid out her events:

_April 15, 2950 of the Third Age_

_My Dear Lord, _

_I have not written for fear of discovery. _

_Today we are near level ground. The Misty Mountains have proved to be a safe passage into Wilderland. The two elven brothers have no suspicion of who or what I am, and the rest are all too trusting of me. They still believe that I am a slave of Rohan and that I can only speak broken sentences of the Common Tongue. _

_Cuiladan and Estel are still a mystery. They have said nothing that gives a clue to their birth, yet they call Elladan and Elrohir "brother." I have seduced the elder of these brothers, and perhaps, through this, he may tell me of his origin. _

At this, Eordhe felt her heart leap uncomfortably. With frustration, she hit her chest with her left hand, suppressing the aching feeling spreading again. After all, what was Cuiladan to her? Just another man, young and inexperienced. She was seducing him because she had to, not because she wanted to.

A spy.

That was what she was. If she became too soft, she would reveal too much of herself to him and he would find out. Would he still be the same man then? She doubted it. Like all the other men in her life, he would turn away, disgusted or fearful of whom she was.

No. She must keep her heart cold and aloof. She could offer her flesh, but her heart already belonged to another. With this in mind, she continued her account.

_There has been no word of an Arathorn III in all of my travels. If he is indeed alive, his secret is well kept and those that know of him are either dead or mute. I will continue to follow this band of travelers, for I already know their purpose. I will carry out my duty as soon as I speak with my other Master._

_Your servant always, _

_M. of L. _

She closed her book and put the ink and quill away. Writing to her lord always sunk her spirits to their lowest point. She did even know why she still did it. It would be a miracle if she returned alive with this intact. But if she did… perhaps… then perhaps he would love her again.

* * *

"Where is Eordhe?" Cuiladan suddenly piped up, raising his head from his blankets. The rest of the company had grown comfortable in their bedrolls before they realized that the woman was gone. It had nearly been a quarter of a candlestick since she had said she needed to relieve herself.

Estel, not at all sleepy, rolled over where he lay and sat up, observing the darkness around him. The moon provided sufficient light, but the surrounding bushes made it so that he could not see beyond a certain radius of the camp. Already, he had grown uneasy of the Rohirrim slave, as he had noticed that every time she went off by herself, she stayed either a quarter or more of a candlestick. What could she possibly be doing?

"I will look for her," he volunteered, determined to find where this woman was and learn of what she was doing. He did not think it was safe for his brother to continue to be with her, but because he was younger, he could not say anything for fear of looking ignorant if Eordhe proved innocent.

"No," Elladan objected, already standing. "I will." Elrohir made a move to follow him, but Elladan put out a hand. "No, stay," he told him in Quenya. "I have a reason to look for her by myself."

Elrohir cocked his head once to the right, then nodded and sat back down. The others looked on curiously.

"Act as if everything was normal," the oldest elf said. "If I am not back within the next stripe of a candle, then come and investigate." With these mysterious words, he entered the nearest crowd of bushes and disappeared into the night.

Orophin muttered something under his breath, and Gildor put a hand on his shoulder to comfort him. "He knows something," he explained to the other elf. "I know him, and he has not been wrong yet."

* * *

Eordhe pocketed the ink and quill, looked down at the leather bound book, and considered her options. She was still in her sitting position, legs crossed, and head down. Even now, she still had to act as a slave.

_Why_? She asked herself. In truth, she did not understand why she was still helping her lord. She could go off now, leave the travelers, and not be any worse off than she had been before. She could do it. None of them knew where she was right now. She could run. But no.

She could not. Her other Master would know of her unfaithfulness and would have her face a sentence worse than death. Even if she were to fly to the depths of an unknown cave or find shelter with the elves, if she was anywhere in Middle-Earth, her Master would have the power to find her.

"You are only Eordhe now," she whispered to herself, and reached out for her book.

Another hand, quicker than lightning, was there before it. "And who, I wonder," the cold voice of Elladan came from behind her, "were you before?" Eordhe felt the pit of her stomach grow cold, as if she had just swallowed snow, and whispers of cold breath fluttered along her spine.

Before she could react, a strong hand grabbed her around the collar, and she cried out as the elf dragged her back towards camp.

**TBC...**

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**There! Finally I updated. **

**Did you like the cliffy:) Please review!**


	10. Chapter 9: Who is M of L?

**Author's Note**: I don't own the Lord of the Rings... da dee da... Oo... I went to see RENT! Everyone go see it! It was wonderful!

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Chapter 9

**Who is M. of L.?**

"My book--!" Eordhe cried out in a choked voice, but the elf had already taken the royally bound journal into consideration. His hand closed around its spine, and with it in one hand, pulled the woman by the front of her dress. Eordhe was lifted clean off the ground for a second, and crashed painfully back down, as Elladan's hand lowered. She stumbled and tried to get on her knees and pull down her rising skirt at the same time, and tripped again, this time stubbing her toes on a jutting rock.

Tears of humiliation and anger rose in her eyes as the elf dragged her through the bushes like a common dog. At his hands, she knew she would meet no mercy. Her feet scrabbled uselessly on the loose mountain soil as her legs endured the tiny knives on the leaves of the surrounding bushes. Scratch marks went up as high as her thighs, as friction tore at her dress.

"Let go of me!" she cried, completely forgetting who she was. "How dare you treat me like this!"

The elf made no sound, and the woman screamed again, grabbing the hand that held the front of her dress. With the expertise of his race, Elladan shook her like a rag doll, until her grip was loosened. Though she knew she would lose in this hopeless tug of war, Eordhe tried to bite him.

"Stay still," the elf commanded, "or I will make you wish you had never intruded upon this company's welcome!"

She made no sign of compliance and continued to beat the elf's arm, as he pulled her screaming and kicking figure into the middle of the travelers' camp. Her head slammed the ground, and vaguely, she realized that he was not pulling her any longer.

As soon as his brother had shown his face, scarcely a few minutes after he left, dragging the woman, Estel bolted from his bedroll. The woman hardly looked and sounded like a slave now, screaming and cursing in perfect Common, as she tried to writhe out of Elladan's firm grasp. Her hair was a wild tangle of matted straw on her head and her face was covered in dust. She was nearly as dirty as when they had first found her, but this time, much more conspicuous. Her skirt was half way up her thighs from being dragged, and Estel noticed the scratches that she had sustained from the bushes.

Cuiladan also jumped up from his bedroll, but for a completely different reason. "What is the meaning of this?" he cried, as he ran to the woman's side. "Eordhe?" He tried to help her up, but Elladan seized his hand and pulled him back, as if the woman was diseased. "What are you doing?" Cuiladan thundered, and tried to run forward again, but his brother held on.

"_Dartho_!" (**Wait!**) Elladan commanded. "_Lasto nin_! (**Hear me!**) Elrohir!" The twins exchanged a quick look, and it seemed that everything that Elladan had learned was transferred to Elrohir in that one look.

With a flick of his wrist, Elladan had tossed what looked like a leather bound book to Elrohir. The other caught it and asked, "_Man i sen_?" (**What is this**?)

"_Parf tîn_," (**Her book**) he answered, and Elrohir seemed to understand.

With the same speed as his twin, and before Estel could comprehend what was going on, Elrohir pulled Eordhe roughly to her feet and held her hands behind her back, a dagger at her throat. "Who are you?" he cried.

"NO!" Cuiladan tried to dash forward again, but Elladan's grasp was firm.

"What is this?" Ranien had joined the circle with Orophin and Gildor. Lindir, however, had chosen to watch this from his bedroll. He had known Elladan and Elrohir for long enough to know that they were usually right whenever one of them had suspicions.

The woman did not open her mouth, but Estel could see the change in her face. Whereas before, a simple, almost dull expression had pervaded her features, a dark, harsh gleam of intelligence and cunning now shone in her eyes. It was frightening to watch, as the rosy cheeks of a common slave became the crimson rouge of an experienced woman and the pouted lips of someone too simple to come to maturation became the cherries of seduction on a single-minded spy.

He noticed once again that she did not possess the elven beauty that he was so use to. However, though the simple prettiness of a country girl was gone, it was replaced by a dark and terrible beauty of a woman of politics.

Both twins ignored Ranien, and one hand still pulling Cuiladan back, Elrohir flipped open the leather-bound journal with the other. With a quick eye, he scanned the ink-filled pages and narrowed them as he came upon the blank ones.

He looked up, saw his brother, and pushed Cuiladan back so he could not interrupt the twins' accusations. Estel stood still, afraid to move—afraid to breathe—for it seemed that if he so much as twitched, the tension in the air would burst and consume them. However, as soon as Elrohir opened his mouth, Estel knew why Eordhe had been caught.

"Letters of the Tengwar," Elrohir hissed in Common as he thrust the book into the woman's face. "Letters to your lord."

Estel could not help but snap his head quickly at Cuiladan's direction. He knew he should not have, but he did because of the strange impulse pushing inside of him. A giant fist was holding down his stomach, and something inside him was churning. A wide eye glance told him all he needed to know. Just like him, Cuiladan had understood the significance of the notebook and the Tengwar.

Even in moonlight, the boy could see his brother's eyes cloud as they filled with hurt. Almost automatically, his mouth had formed an "O," silently mouthing the word of dissent.

"No…" the whisper escaped from his throat like a wisp of dying wind in an ending blizzard. Hoarse and bare, it would not have been heard if everywhere around them was dead silence.

Eordhe, or whoever she really was, showed no sign of recognizing the journal.

Again, as Elladan held her still, Elrohir scrutinized the small dark lines with blazing eyes. "A slave?" Estel could hear the mockery in his voice. "And since when did the Rohirrim teach their slaves letters? Moreover, when did the Rohirrim teach their slaves _Elvish _letters?"

Estel saw the woman grind her teeth together, but the expression upon her face was still blank, as dark brown tresses fell over her features, blocking her icy features. "You are no common _slave_," Elladan continued. "Indeed, you are not even nobility. Even the highest class of the Rohirrim have no use for the Elvish letters. Who are you, Eordhe?"

Silence.

Not even the wind blew at this dead, cold hour, as five figures stood in a circle around three others. Two were facing each other and the third was being held captive by one of them.

"You are not even of Rohan," Elladan spoke.

At this, the woman started, but was pushed back to her submissive position by the elf. Her chest heaved, as she tried to consume air through her nostrils and calm herself, but Estel saw the muscles in her jaw clench until they bulged.

"Yes, Eordhe, if that is still you name. Remember," he said, "you let your character slip when being dragged through the bushes. Your accent on the Common Tongue is clearly Gondorian. And, if I may add, southern Gondorian nobility."

Her eyes bulged, but she said nothing.

"It would explain the shorthand," Elrohir started where his brother had cut off, and handed the notebook to Ranien, who immediately began to flip through it.

She stood her ground, trying to retain what dignity she had left after being dragged until she was half dead through the shrubbery and the revealing of her true nature. Elladan and Elrohir she could deal with. No matter what, she knew, she must not betray her Master. Whatever pain and torture the elves did to her, she must endure, for she knew her Master would double anything these travelers could inflict. If they killed her, so be it.

A good spy never let on any secrets.

The hand on her arm clenched and she gasped as she felt her bone twist beneath her skin. Whatever they did to her flesh, her heart must remain stone! If that remained untouched, her spirit could not be broken, and unless they deciphered the letters in her journal, they would know nothing. All her secrets would go with her to her grave.

As long as her stone hard heart was untouched.

Elladan then maneuvered his arm in such a way that hers felt at the point of breaking. She let nothing escape her lips, but she was forced to her knees before his grip loosened. As she winced, she looked up, hoping for something to tell her this was a dream.

Instead, she saw the moonlight shining full on a face, where gray eyes gazed at her, those windows showing a hurt and betrayed soul. Each masculine feature was the very essence of sadness, but the eyes…

Eordhe felt her heart go out, flying naughtily out of her reach. The man may as well have used magic to turn her heart into butter, for it melted as she looked up at Cuiladan's heartbroken expression.

He was so beautiful, wonderful… perfect. He was the only person who had not judged her before he knew her, who had taken the time to actually understand as much of her as possible. He had not even known who she was, and he had accepted her. She knew no one else like that, and did not expect to meet many others.

Suddenly, for the first time, she felt a strange, gnawing sensation in her stomach as her intestines twisted in a nauseous, churning manner. Her heart raced and it was as if insects were crawling through her thoracic cavity, for without doubt, she felt the urge to tell everything within her brain to anyone, anyone at all who would listen.

Guilt.

She squirmed under Elladan's captivity, trying to release some of this tension physically, but cried out unintentionally as she received a blow on the back. She struggled, but her heart—and conscience—was too strong to repress.

Before she knew it, her mouth had opened, and she voiced the most crucial information a spy could ever reveal about herself.

"My name is Morwen of Lossarnach."

**TBC...**

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Hee hee... surprised? If you've read this, I implore you to review because it is only polite... LOL... and now, because of the nifty reply to review thing we have, I will reply as soon as possible! Yay! 


	11. Chapter 10: One Good Reason

**Haha! Finally got the chance to update! Hopefully, my dad doesn't take my internet away from me again, so I will be good and not do anything bad. Therefore, you can enjoy this fic!

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Chapter 10

**One Good Reason **

"Gondorian nobility," Cuiladan echoed hollowly after Elladan. "Gondorian _nobility_." He repeated the two words as if they were incredulous and there was no way he could believe them. In a way, he could not. He was the heir to the throne of Gondor. Things could not be more perfect… or imperfect…

"It clearly explains her higher education and this… _ingenious_ shorthand," Elrohir said, weighing the indecipherable notebook in one hand. He had resumed his confident air of sarcasm after they had tied up Eordhe/Morwen and gagged her. Ranien seemed particularly good at this, though Estel did not want to ask why. Now all that remained to be done was to decide what to do with the treacherous woman.

"Which makes her even more dangerous," Gildor put in Sindarin, reminding the others that she could understand the Common Tongue. The eight of them were standing a little apart from their camp in a small circle. "I still feel she is not telling the whole truth."

Morwen sat with her back to them, at the center of the camp, the elven ropes cutting into her wrists and ankles. Her back was becoming cramped as were hand and feet were connected with another piece of rope. The struggle had left her breathless and choking on the piece of cloth in her mouth, still bookless and answerless. Still, she tried to listen with all her might.

She knew that the elves did not believe her story and she cursed herself again and again for being stupid and clumsy with her secrets. _The plague on Cuiladan!_ she mentally damned him. Ho was it that one look from him had made her let go of her only lifeline in all of this turmoil? They knew her name!

She had looked away after spilling this, but she could not stop speaking, and she knew she could not lie, for she had learned before that elves could see straight through and outright fib. Morwen had tried to weave her way around it, only giving parts of information that was completely necessary for her story to seem whole. Even now, she knew that the elves were itching to get more out of her, and she was not excited about what they would do to her to get the real story.

She shifted silently to ease her aching legs, but only succeeded in getting a sharp pain to shoot through her left knee.

Grimacing, she tasted bile, but had to swallow the bitter liquid because of the gag. Nausea quickly ensued, and she stopped her ears to the elves' conversation. The little Sindarin she knew did not help her anyway. Her stomach lurched as her mouth filled with the taste of acid, and the world seemed to spin around her already fuzzy mind. Letting out an inaudible groan, she closed her eyes, hoping to avoid the oncoming headache.

She did not open them until a hand jerked back her head with a firm grip on her hair. It was skillfully entwined in the masses of black curls so that she could not move if she wanted. Crying out, she nearly choked on her gag, and her tied hands could not massage her aching neck. A thin line of icy metal touched her carotid, and instantly, she froze as if struck dumb.

"Give me one good reason why we should not just slit your throat right now," Ranien's usually soft voice was covered in daggers next to her ear. She thought he heard a sudden intake of breath from Cuiladan's direction, but she could have imagined it. Still, her heart clenched again, and she once more cursed herself for being such an easy woman.

Another elf removed the cloth from her mouth, and Morwen was mortified as her dry tongue lolled lazily, letting saliva and stomach acid drip from the corners of her mouth, past her cheek, and down her neck onto the long knife. Her throat was dry and she still tasted the bitterness of defeat and bile. Estel made a disgusted noise behind his lips, and she heard his boots grind into the earth. For having been raised by elves, the boy knew nothing of subtleness.

_That would be his undoing_, she promised herself. She had no ideas how she could possibly love one brother and hate the others so much. _NO!_ she cried to herself. It was not love. It was a passing infatuation. That was all. She only loved her lord.

"Speak!" Elladan commanded, and Morwen realized the elves had come to a conclusion and had surrounded her.

She frantically searched her mind for a decent answer, but she found it difficult to concentrate with a knife pressing against her lifeline and a circle of her enemies around her. _I _cannot_ die_, she stated firmly to herself. _If I do, this will have all been in vain. The Valar will damn me eternally anyway. I must try to live a little longer._

Her Master needed her alive. So she took the wildest chance of her life.

"I…" her voice sounded as if she had drank a cup of nails. "I… know the safest way to Dol Guldur!"

Silence.

Morwen's heart pounded in her ribcage, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps. It was a miracle her throat had not yet sustained any wounds. Secretly, praying to whatever Vala would listen to her after all her misdeeds, she hoped that she had said the right thing.

Her Master had only guessed that the twins would enter Mirkwood, though she had never heard them mention the place, but they were heading in that direction and she knew that Elrond was more than a little interested in that area. Like the wizards, he knew what that her Master was rising again.

She thought she had struck gold after the long silence, but suddenly, the knife was pressed even more painfully into her neck. She gasped as it nicked her skin and she felt a warm droplet of life fall down her neck, into her dress, and roll between the curves of her breasts.

"Why do you think we wish to go to Dol Guldur?" Ranien asked, his voice so apathetic that Morwen could not tell whether she had guessed right or made a mortal mistake.

The tiny cut unnerved her, and slightly frantic, she cried out, "You _are_ heading in that direction! I… I thought—"

"Liar," Elrohir's sarcastic tone was unmistakable. It was almost wore that Elladan's assertiveness that made him almost seem like a god. For a second, Morwen was afraid she was in for her death, but Ranien lowered the pressure of the blade against her neck one notch. Her spine still hurt, as she was staring at the sky, with her head pulled all the way back. "No doubt, your master, whoever he may be, already knows our father's motives. He told you to appeal to Orcs to come this way and intercept us. How you did it, I will never know."

The disgust in his voice was plain, and she remembered how much elves hated Orcs. Somehow, this distaste, instead of apathy, made Elrohir seem more humane. She knew now that he could _feel_, and was not an impassive, perfect, wrathful higher being. If he could feel, he could be overcome. If he was not perfect, he had his weaknesses. Now all she had to do was find out what they were.

The comfort brought composure back to Morwen, and she narrowed her eyes at the sky. "You will never get into Dol Guldur alive without me," she threatened softly with confidence. They were going to Dol Guldur. For what purpose, she still did not know, but whatever it was, it was foolish. Her Master would kill these pitiful eight. If anything, he would be delighted to have them as… guests.

"We shall see," Gildor's cold voice thundered, and something hard struck Morwen hard in the back of the head. She remembered nothing else but warm, motherly darkness.

She woke groggily with more of a migraine than she had ever had before. Her mouth was fuzzy and dry, and she could still taste a tinge of bitterness. With effort, she conjured up enough saliva to spit a few times onto the ground. At this, she realized that her gag was gone. Apparently, the elves did not believe that anyone was close enough to hear her scream.

"Eordhe?" a soft voice beckoned, and she immediately seized her spitting, embarrassed that someone had caught her in this disgracing act.

"Who…?" her voice cut off as she tried to form her second word. Her mouth was too dry for speech, and she only succeeded in licking her cracking lips with a moisture-less tongue.

"It is I, Eordhe."

How could she have forgotten that sweet voice, filled with masculinity?

"Cuil…"

"Sh," he held a warm finger to her lips, and she finally opened her eyes to face the perfectly chiseled features that softened every time he smiled. "My brothers do not know I'm here."

The proximity of his body to hers made her feel his heat, and instantly, she wanted him to hold her and tell her that everything was all right. If only this was all a dream and if only them had met in another life time…

"Cuiladan," she finally formed the word. His name brought peace upon her troubled mind and through she was still tied, she leaned forward, wanting to be closer to him. "I… I'm sorry. You hate me."

He ran a hand through her hair, feeling the soft silk beneath his fingers and traced the line of her jaw with his other hand. "No," he whispered. "I couldn't." The hand went beneath her chin and tilted her head so she looked into his eyes. She gasped unwillingly and saw confusion and emotion in those gray orbs. Unlike his brother, Cuiladan had learned to hide his feelings from his face, but not his eyes. "I just want to know why. One good reason why you are here."

Oh, Eru. How could she lie?

"We all have dark pasts," she replied, getting her voice back. "We all must do what we have to do. I am Morwen of Lossarnach, not Eordhe."

"And you had to spy on us? You had to go to extent of pretending to be captured by Orcs to do so?" There was no accusation in his tone, yet she looked away in shame. She did not have to answer for him to know the answer.

A small _shink_ of extracting metal made her heart leap with fear into her throat, and as she looked down and saw the glint of Cuiladan's hunting knife. Her mind panicked, and she thought the worse. Catching the fear in her eyes, the man gave her a rueful smile.

"You still do not trust me?" he asked. He tried to keep his voice nonchalant, but Morwen could hear a tremor rack his voice. "After all of this?"

"Do you trust me?"

The question threw the man off track, and he lowered the blade. He searched the ground, as if had lost something, then looked back at the woman. "What can I say? Within ten minutes, the woman I thought I knew could speak my language, turned out to be a noble of Gondor, and what's more, she could be mortal enemy," he voiced hollowly. "No, Morwen of Lossarnach. I do not trust you."

He moved the knife again, but instead of aiming at her throat as she thought he was going to do, he went behind her. She felt the cold of the blade on her palm and then wrist, and knew what he was going to do.

"Do not!" she hissed, knowing what a sacrifice it was for him to do something like that. With all of her strength in her numbed arms and legs, she squirmed away. "You brothers will know!"

"They are my brothers," Cuiladan answered. "They will understand." He moved again to cut the bonds on her wrists and ankles and free her.

"No!" she still resisted. "I have been discovered. I will stay humbled."

He recognized the tone of her voice. It was the one that Elladan used with him when he meant he was serious. Usually, following those orders in that tone saved his life. It only reinforced the information that she was Gondorian nobility. No commoner or slave had that kind of authority taught to her.

Pausing, he swallowed and closed his eyes.

Morwen sighed in relief when she heard the _shink_ of his blade sliding back into its sheath. He got up from behind her and after looking at the back of her bowed head in the moonlight, he stepped back towards the camp.

In his heart, he knew that he had never yearned for anything or anyone more than he did for her, but he knew better than to reveal too much of himself to a possible enemy. For all he knew, she could have been using him all along to get information. But the emotion in her eyes…there was no way anyone could have faked that.

"Wait," her melodious voice, muted by a ragged throat stopped him. "Please…" Cuiladan almost smiled. He knew how it felt to grow up in a family where servants were at his beck and call. Sometimes, it took a lot to remember his manners. There was no doubt that she was nobility.

He knew that he should not, but the heart often overpowers the mind. With his mind shouting warnings at him, he turned around to look into the face he knew he would remember until the day he died.

"Give me one good reason," she was still in the uncomfortable position that her bonds rendered her in, but she was still beautiful as ever, "why you would do a thing like that for a person like me."

For a second, looking into those long-lashed eyes, milky complexion, and womanly figure, he almost let loose what was really in his mind. But, remembering his place, he put on a cold façade and answered in an apathetic voice, "I don't know anymore. Come to think of it, why should I waste the precious love I have between my family for someone like you?"

Morwen's jaw went slack as Cuiladan turned on his heel and stalked off, his back cold and uncaring in the silver moonlight.

Estel crouched lower behind the bushes as his brother walked by. Then, with a shaky sigh, he fell to his knees, sobbing quietly. Despite what Cuiladan had said, he had seen right through his brother's mask.

What was more, he had seen what his brother had been trying to do.

_Cuiladan_, he thought as his heart wrenched, _how could you have come so close to betraying all of us?_

**TBC...**

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Please review! And thank you for reading!**


	12. Chapter 11: Nad No Ennas

**A/N**: Again, sorry for the slow update. I'll probably be faster when it comes to winter break because then, I'll have all the free time in the world. Unfortunately, unlike the rest of the WORLD, our school doesn't get out next week. We actually get out the week after that, the Saturday of 12/24. Blehhh...

Thanks for waiting and reviewing everyone! I appreciate it!

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Chapter 11

_**Nad No Ennas**_

As the weeks past, it seemed quite true that the woman knew the safest way to Dol Guldur. After the twins led the company over the Hithaeglir and through the Gladden Fields without incident, she had pointed them without fail southeast until they came, unscathed, indeed, without even meeting Orcs, to the forests of Mirkwood.

Elrohir had been muttering about this since the journey through the Gladden Fields, for the area around Lothlórien, the elven safe haven, and Mirkwood were infested with goblins and hobgoblins. He and his twin had passed there often enough and not once before had they not encountered at least a score of Orcs. Morwen seemed to have some type of repellant on her, for nothing evil was seen within a 1000 paces of them.

As they entered the forest, and the coolness of the dark descended upon them, so did the fear of the trees that were thousands of years old. Estel could not help but feel the hostility of this place, as he knew that it, though it was a _forest_ for the Valar's sake, wanted nothing with them.

His thoughts strayed to his image of hostility: Morwen.

He had been thinking about her over the past few weeks, and not in the adoring way that his brother did. Cuiladan, he knew, was enchanted by their little sorceress and he hoped greatly that this infatuation would end. He had never seen his brother so enticed by a woman before, and it only made him uncomfortable around his older sibling. Elladan and Elrohir had ceased to talk about it, as one night, Cuiladan had confronted them about his feelings, and the two decided that only the Valar could decide his fate now.

_Morwen of Lossarnach_.

The name was too familiar for him to pass up. He _knew_ that he had either read or heard it somewhere before.

However, he had thought about it for his entire journey and yet, he had not come to any conclusions. Perhaps he just felt such animosity for the woman that he was making things up in his mind.

Perhaps…

"_Nad no ennas_," (**There's something out there**) Orophin suddenly hissed through clenched teeth. He had the most experience beneath the trees, as he had lived in Lothlórien for most of his life.

Before anyone could dislodge any of the neglected weapons from their horse saddles and packs, Orcs sprang from behind the undergrowth and high bushes, cruel swords at the ready.

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As the small band contended with the Orc attack as a distraction, Morwen quietly slipped towards the trees, apologizing silently to Cuiladan. This was the way it had to be. She had spoken with her Master through ways that the others did not know. His strength, now, even extended to possessing the waters around Mirkwood, and through the small puddles and lakes, Morwen had been able to spill her situation to him. He had not been pleased, but their newly devised plan to ring in the brothers was flawless.

All they needed to do now was distract the elves enough so that they did not have a firm grasp on her whereabouts for a few minutes so that she could get back to the side of her Master.

Behind the shadow of the eaves, she touched the hand of her guide, giving him the signal that it was truly she. In the perpetual darkness of Mirkwood, she could not see him, but his glowing yellow eyes told her that he was anything by human. For a second, she drew back, smelling his foul breath. She caught the scent of drink and rotting meat, and felt her stomach churn with nausea.

Closing her eyes, she knew that she could scream and abandon her Master's plan. She could help the elves and they would never know that she was going to betray them.

No.

She could not do that. She had come too far from her home land, and her Master had promised her lord's love in return for her duty. Her Master knew the way into anyone's heart, and with him on her side, perhaps she could get her lord to turn away from his filthy mistresses and perhaps even _look _at her for once.

At this, Morwen realized that she was clenching her fists together so tightly that she had left half-moon marks from her nails on the inside of her palms.

Her husband…

Her lord's _love_.

Swallowing hard and summoning up her courage, she let him lead her through the vine-infested path that buried them further into the depths of the vast forest.

**TBC...**

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**Short update, I know, but doesn't it give you a feeling of suspense? Heh heh heh... **

**Please review!**


	13. Chapter 12: Captured

**Hi! Merry Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzah/whatever holiday all! For a present, I give you another update!

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Chapter 12

**Captured**

Estel gulped, realizing that he was finally facing his second battle.

It was not so much the experience that frightened him, but he was unprepared and the only weapon he had at ready was Elladan's dagger that he always concealed in an ankle sheath. He took it out now, hoping that it would have more use than his bare hands in battle.

Like ants storming from their hill, the Orcs surged from the darkness, plaguing the forest with their unwholesome selves. Roaring and screaming with the glee of potential kills, they threw themselves upon the ill-equipped travelers, hoping for the taste of human and elf blood.

It seemed as if they took an air of evil with them, for as soon as they appeared, the sun disappeared from the sky, leaving all in darkness. With no sunlight, the forest seemed as if the culmination of a bloody nightmare.

The horses screamed in protest, and the boy turned, hoping to stop his, but she was too quick for him. In a stab of fear, she bolted, turning tail on the battle and disappearing into the blackness.

Estel unsheathed the dagger, revealing a thin, silver light between the black eaves, his heart pounding near his throat. The blood rushing behind his ears made him nearly deaf, and a cold hand was drawing a string around his stomach. Already, he was surrounded.

Except for the light from his weapon, he could only see the wolfish yellow eyes of his enemies. As he waved the elvish dagger around him like a novice, the Orcs drew back, snarling, as the harsh gleam invaded the sensitivity of their nocturnal eyes.

Realizing his advantage, Estel crept forward, hoping to near his brothers so that that they could mutually protect each other. Already, the cries of death and war were around him as the elves pulled weapons from their bewildered horses.

Knowing their prey was about to escape, a bold Orc leaped forward, a wicked scimitar in hand, ready to gut him. Squinting in the darkness and using his knife for a weapon as well as a lamp, Estel arched the dagger up just in time to avoid a serious head wound. However, the elven weapon proved worthy to its name, as sparks flashed where metal hit metal, and the Orc screeched in terror as he felt the heat of the two flash across his arm.

The scimitar went flying, but did not discourage the creature to attack the boy with his bare hands.

Nearly blind because his stubborn eyes refused to adjust to the lack of light, Estel screamed as he felt a hot, lancing pain across his left upper arm. Something near him roared in triumph and he felt a rising anger drowning out his fear.

Cursing, he stabbed out like an amateur with his dagger, ducking and rolling on the ground as an Orc squeaked in pain and fell. However, it seemed that five Orcs would take the place of every one that he defeated, and as he spun in a dizzy circle, more and more of the foul creatures surrounded him.

Suddenly, a foul stench entered his nostrils, and he realized that a huge Orc was standing directly behind him. A cloudy gray smoke issued from his right hand, and Estel's mind began to float.

As the smoke entered his lungs, he felt his body leave him and his senses did not seem to obey his will. He found himself falling to the ground, but before he completely lost his sight, he realized what the Orc had set upon him.

With one last effort, his mind screamed, _Sleep powder_!

Cuiladan whirled from his fighting stance onto the nearest Orc and sank his sword into its neck. To his surprise, not only did the creature not fight back, but the thick circle that had surrounded him before began to dissipate.

Just like the morning fog, they went as quickly as they came, getting sucked back towards the trees as if they had a gravitational pull to the center of the forest. Confused, Cuiladan turned his head, and found that _all _the creatures, which had clearly outnumbered the small band and were winning the skirmish, were leaving.

With them, went the dark clouds covering the sun, and within minutes, the small road under the eaves was lighted again by the greenish tint of the leaves. The only sign of the battle was that there were bodies of the dead, scattered across the undergrowth, their blood stained red upon the brown earth.

He looked around, seeing that his brothers and the guards seemed just as bewildered as he was.

"That was strange," Ranien nearly whispered hollowly. "We are near Dol Guldur and I expected an attack, but there was no point in that."

Gildor nodded. "We were outnumbered. They could have easily killed us, and usually Orcs do not leave unless satisfied with their kills." He looked at the dead creature at his feet with disgust and pulled out his sword from its neck. He, Cuiladan, and Elrohir had been the only ones who had gotten their weapons in time before the horses bolted.

Suddenly, Cuiladan bit his lip at a turn of genius. The entire picture fit. Estel had disappeared and the Orcs had as well, without finishing them off. Hoping against hope that what he thought was not true, he searched the road for Morwen.

She, also, had disappeared.

He felt a shudder of pain shot through his heart.

"Valar be damned!" he spat in anger and hurt. He should have known that this would happen. He should have known that his trust would be betrayed again as it had been before.

"What is it?" Elladan asked gently, knowing his brother's temper; he would never have an outburst like this unless

"It was a kidnapping!" he explained bitterly. _Why had he not thought of this before? Why had he believed that he could trust Morwen? _"They have taken Estel. The Orcs never wanted us dead. The Shadow here must have known about us. He does not wish us dead yet. First, he must toy with us."

Orophin caught on quickly. "Morwen must have been his plant," he said in his own tongue. "We fell for it completely. He wants Estel so he can lure the rest of us in."

Elrohir clenched his fists and turned from the group. Cuiladan could see him trying to hold back his anger as his cutting tone issued forth. "And torture us like he did with our mother, no doubt."

His twin walked over and put a hand on his shoulder for comfort. The two shared a look of anguish, and both remembered the look of pain and suffering on their mother's face as she was carried onto the gray elven ship heading West.

"We have to find him," Elladan said at last.

There was a silence as the travelers realized their peril. They were in Mirkwood forest, without a guide, at the mercy of the Shadow, horseless, and a treacherous woman already gave their position away.

"We will be falling straight into his trap," Gildor replied quietly.

"He is our brother," Elrohir said firmly, his voice devoid of his usual cynicism. "We must, trap or not. And once we find Morwen, I can guarantee her death."

Cuiladan shuddered at his brother's cold words, but nodded. "Let us go then, and pray to the Valar that we are not captured."

The task was done.

He could feel it.

He stopped the clouds and let the sun shine again over the forest of Mirkwood, hoping to save his depleting energy. His strength had not completely returned, but it was enough to bestow fear upon the malleable heart of Morwen of Lossarnach.

In the darkness, He smiled.

He resided in Dol Guldur, a plain empty room with a throne composed of shadow. He needed nothing else.

"Now we shall wait," He replied, looking down at the trembling figure of the woman prostrate on the ground. "You have helped me much. And for that, I shall give you a gift."

He let out a small wave of energy, touching her with a cold hand.

She shuddered, and had she not had so much strength of will, she would have backed away. She hated him. He could feel it. But she was willing to do anything to get her husband's love back. Women were always so easily manipulated.

"Thank you, Master," she mumbled. Despite her noble lineage, she had never had the courage to look up at him once whenever they met.

"Place your hand on my throne, Morwen of Lossarnach," He commanded. The shadows swirled before her eyes, and her heart leaped uncomfortably as she trembled in his eyes.

More than anything, she hated his throne. It moved and changed, never staying the same place for more than a second at a time. It was nothing but an empty black hole.

Against her will, she felt her body walking towards it, her hand outstretched as if to touch it. The bloated body of Darkness above the throne was alluring, like a song of the elves, pulling her in.

Before she knew it, her hand was immersed in the black throne. Her eyes widened as a sudden, searing pain lanced up her arm and fire seemed to spread through her bones. With a cry of pain, she fell backwards, clutching her hand, tears forming in her eyes.

"Your gift requires you to be bound forever to me," the rumbling voice of the Shadow replied. He smiled inwardly once more, and ignored the piercing cries of anguish from the woman.

"No!" Morwen screamed. "You cannot! I forbid it! I did not do it willingly!"

He turned his mind elsewhere.

There were more important matters at hand than his servant's happiness. After all, she was now victim to his every beck and call.

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**Did you like it? In return for the update, please please please review!**


	14. Chapter 13: Lost in the Darkness

**Wow... I can't believe I haven't updated for 2 weeks... sorry! Hope this makes up for it!**

**P.S. Thanks for catching that little tidbit about Sindarin, HazleSilver... I've changed it!

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Chapter 13

**Lost in the Darkness**

Estel awoke to darkness, his eyes refusing to adjust.

Groaning slightly, he realized how heavy his eyelids were and that there was a throbbing pain pounding at the back of his head, which weighed more than his horse. The headache drove nausea in waves to the front of his face, where it gathered between his eyes and at his temples. The cool stone behind his head was heaven against his raging body temperature, and he turned to rest his hot cheek on the blissful rock pillow.

It was only then that he realized his hand sand feet were bound painfully tight, with a length of rope running from his wrist bonds to his ankles. It was virtually impossible to move any limb without moving his entire body.

As he turned on his side, the pressure in his hands, which had been behind his back, lifted, and slowly, tiny shots of pain raced through his fingers as blood circulated into his hands.

It is strange how the mind reacts to physical abuse. After repeated blows, even the sharpest pains may not register with the brain. Even pain has a limit. However, sometimes, a light caress or a lover's kiss may wake the tormented mind to the world again.

With Estel, it was the waking of his hands that brought back his senses. As if waking from a dream, he lifted his head. With his next breath, he could smell the stench of stale urine and rotten meat that permeated the area. Opening his mouth to groan in disgust, he tasted the sour flavor of bad whiskey on the rough, cloth gag in his mouth. The muslin was knotted painfully at the back of his head, pulled tight across his cheeks so that they strained.

His nausea overpowered his self-will and bile escaped his esophagus into the back of his throat.

It was almost enough to send him into unconsciousness again. Weakly, he turned his head, but he may as well have been blind in the utter darkness for what good it did him.

Sluggishly, his wits churned and finally permitted a single thought to escape his mind.

_By the Valar, where am I?

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"We have to keep going!"

Elladan sighed.

Despite how much he wanted to find his youngest brother, he knew it was useless to continue pressing on, lost, in the darkness. It was especially dangerous now, as the small band had decided to separate, three in each group to go on their different ways.

"No," he said, remembering what the wood-elf Ranien had said about the forest after nightfall. At any rate, he did not want to deal with the spiders, Orcs, and other creatures of the night in Mirkwood. "Ranien was right. It is too dark to keep going. We may wander off the path at this rate."

"But Estel and Morwen…" Cuiladan protested. Despite everything, he had come to believe that Morwen was innocent. He had judged too quickly and his mind had been clouded by the battle. There was after all, as he said, no evidence that she had not been kidnapped as well.

The others believed otherwise.

By the sound of his voice, Elladan knew he was getting farther away, going against his conscience, further into the woods. "Cuiladan, come back!" he commanded. He heard the man falter as his footsteps slowed. Then, dragging feet began to make their way back to the two elves.

"They might not be alive by tomorrow!" the man cried indignantly.

Even with his elf eyes, Elladan could not see in the complete darkness, and not having his sight for so long made him nervous and anxious. This, in turn, made him snappish and irritated.

"For the Valar's sake, use your head, Cuiladan!" he shouted before he could stop himself. "They won't be, and getting ourselves killed in the process of finding them is not going to help anybody!"

The man fell silent, stunned at the normally good-natured elf's outburst.

Pacing, Elladan muttered, "I knew splitting up was a bad idea."

Elrohir blew air out of his mouth and shook his head. "That's the fifth time you've said that, _muindor_."

"And I'll say it again, because it's true! Splitting up was a bad idea, and now, we don't even have the protection of numbers!" the oldest elf cried. "And we can't even light a fire for fear of those damned spiders!"

The other elf stepped towards the sound of Cuiladan's breathing and put a hand on his brother's shoulder. Obviously, the man had never seen Elladan so worked up about anything. "Don't worry," he whispered. "Of all things, Elladan can't stand the dark."

Their brother growled. "I'm fine with the dark. I just can't stand being in it, not being able to see, with the two of you—"

"Grumbling at my back," Elrohir finished along with his brother. He paused as Elladan's menacing silence filled the air. The darkness around them seemed to gain more mass at this.

Despite nightfall and the eaves of Mirkwood covering the moon, Elrohir knew that his brother was bothered by more than just his lack of sight and their own peevishness. The fear was in him as well.

This close to Dol Guldur, the Shadow had control of the very air they breathed, and with its evil, made the night even more unnaturally dark. It was enough to put fear into the heart of the bravest elf.

Very quietly, Elrohir said soothingly, staying off of his sarcasm for once, "Well, since we can't go forward, now is a good time to reflect on what we know and figure out where to go next."

"All I know is that my brother and a woman who has helped us to get this far has been kidnapped by the Shadow," Cuiladan said, Elladan's bad mood having rubbed off.

His oldest brother snorted. "What do we have to do to convince you that Morwen has just been the plant all along? The Orcs didn't take her. She went with them willingly."

Before Cuiladan could come back with a fitting remark, Elrohir cut in, "We can't be sure of any of that. But we do have a clue to where they may be."

Elladan furrowed his brows at this. It was not like him to miss details. "What clue?"

Elrohir smiled. "Think, _muindor. _When we first exposed Morwen, back near the Highaeglir."

"What?"

"She left something with us."

"That is?"

"Her journal."

**TBC...

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**Please review!**


	15. Chapter 14: Tears of Illumination

**Phew... wow... I actually posted! So many things have happened since I posted Chapter 13, that I can't believe I'm still into this story. Well, I've started driving, and my schedule is a lot more hectic now. I couldn't post for a few weeks because someone tattled on me and I had some of my stories taken off of this site. I was banned. **

**If that happens again, I'm taking _all_ my stories off. Yes. That's a threat. **

**But for the rest of you, enjoy!

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Chapter 14

**Tears of Illumination**

The darkness was alarming, pressing down on him. And yet, somehow, in one instant, it seemed to get even darker and the shadows pressed deeper upon his soul. A chilling drop of sweat trickled down his side, and his breath caught in his throat. Why he was sweating, he did not know. The air had suddenly grown icy.

Estel raised his head slightly so as not to irritate his already pounding migraine, but this elevation did not help his sight or the temperature. He tried to move his bound legs towards his chest just a little to keep in warmth, but the rope running from his hands to his ankles was too tight.

An uncanny feeling that someone or some_thing_ was watching him passed over his mind. Knowing it was stupid, but not knowing how he could be injured more, he called out, "Who is there?"

Silence answered him.

Had he imagined it? He must have been hit harder over the head than he thought. Why had he thought going through Mirkwood forest was a good idea? Why had he _ever_ wanted to go adventuring?

"So you are one of the band of those bastards of Elrond," a soft, oily voice spoke.

Before he could stop himself, Estel hissed in a sharp breath, deafening in the silence. _Valar damn it_, he mentally cursed, knowing that he had given away his position and relation.

"Men are not known for their courage and bravery," the same voice sniveled again. "But you… you were raised by the elves. You are dear to them." Even Estel's clouded mind told him that he should be noting the finer details of the voice's pitch and tone in case he heard it again, but each detail seemed to slip away as another emerged itself, and the boy found that this memory was like a sieve. He simple could not remember the inflections of the voice, as if someone had put a stopper on his wits.

"Good," the indeterminate voice laughed. "They will come looking for you."

Estel's jaw suddenly became unfrozen, and he gasped, "Where am I?"

It laughed. "You will see, boy."

Flames of torches leaped into view.

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"Valar damn it!" Elrohir cursed as he came across another indecipherable word. Cuiladan rubbed his eyes and looked towards the eaves above him, surprised that he still could not see the pinkish eastern lights indicating daybreak. The notebook was so well encrypted that even long-term scholars of Elvish such as the twins could not understand it.

The man rubbed off his sleep and laughed. "Well, you'll have to give her credit for creativity."

Elladan growled low in his throat. "I'll she her creativity with my sword the next time I lay eyes on her," he mumbled. The man's chest tightened at these words, and a strong urge to defend Morwen came upon him.

Shaking his head, he swallowed his defense for her and gritted his teeth in silence. _The most plausible theory is that she betrayed you and took your brother captive!_ He reminded himself, and images of those bright brown eyes swam through his mind.

The sweetness of rosy lips and the softness of her body against his… He could feel his loins tighten with pain at the very thought. And it was not just physical pleasure they shared, but it felt as if their very souls were linked.

Her easy laugh, gentle smile, graceful arms…

"Cuiladan!"

He looked up sharply.

"Are you going to sit there and daze or help us with this notebook?"

Grateful for something to take his mind off of that captivating woman, the man stood and walked to the fire, where Elrohir was busily scrawling letters onto a piece of parchment. His elvish grace seemed to have left him as he slashed furiously with his quill at his mistakes and rearranged the Tengwar once again.

"If only I could get the first line," he muttered to himself, as Cuiladan knelt beside the two, peering at the ink-covered notebook.

The flourishing script, with its rounded letters and light quill strokes, even reminded the man of Morwen, and he closed his eyes. Why could he not get her out of his head? This was not love; it was torture!

He watched as Elladan handed Elrohir another common key used for deciphering messages and winced as Elrohir threw down the key when he got another line of garble. Before he could help himself, Cuiladan pointed out, "I don't think those pre-made keys will work. I am sure she made up a key for herself."

Wordlessly, Elrohir glared at him, snatched up the notebook, and shoved it at Cuiladan, along with a quill and the spare parchment. In the same silent storm of frustration, he began to pace the length of the firelight on the ground. Elladan took a look at his twin and cocked an eyebrow at his other brother in apology before joining Elrohir in his long strides.

Cuiladan sat and stared at the rows of letters in front of him and the uneven spaces among them. Immediately, he was bored by the nonsense written in front of him. His head began to ache as he pondered through row after row of jargon. The firelight danced in front of his eyes, and his mind began to wander.

_This is ridiculous_, the thought came out of nowhere. _I do not even know what language this is supposed to be in. The elvish letters tell me she is familiar with the Tengwar, but I have never heard her speak Sindarin. She did not seem to understand any of us when we spoke it. _

_But she is a great actress, _the other side of him countered. _You know that from first hand experience. Valar forbid, she could have even pretended her love for you. With someone like her, you never know. _

At this thought, a sharp pain lanced across his chest and pressure expanded from his sternum to his ribs. Without knowing why, tears came, distorting his vision, and rendering the notebook and the words in front of him into rows of blurs.

Why had the Valar put such taxes on his heart? What had he done to deserve this? Why—?

Wait.

He had seen something among the letters.

For a second, it had made sense. But as he blinked, his vision became clear, and all the meaning was lost again. Shaking his head, he forced himself to stare at the paper, forgetting all thoughts of the Valar's curses. That moment of illumination, however, had gone.

But he was sure he had seen words!

Very slowly, he squinted at the paper until the lines blurred again.

Still nothing.

He continued to squint, letting his eyes go out of focus, forcefully making the paper in front of him nothing but a blur.

As he fought with his vision, he tried to focus his mind, but it was to no avail. Frustration along with agitation set in, and he gripped the book by his fingernails, digging into the pages as if that would let out the meaning of the jumble of letters on the page. Finally, when he began to doubt whether he had seen anything, the sense suddenly came back, though, again, he was unprepared for it.

He gasped, sliding his eyes into narrow slits.

There it was again!

But as he tried to focus, it slipped away.

Very slowly, he again blurred his vision.

With a hiss of joy of discovery, he hastily began scrawling the key onto the spare parchment. The quill flew across the page, and Cuiladan anted to hit himself for not having seen it before this. It was so obvious now that he realized it, he had to have been a dullard not to see it at first!

As the quill scratched its last strokes, he cried out, "Elladan! Elrohir! I have it!"

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"Do not worry," the ageless voice intoned with a hint of malice as the torches drew closer from the other end of the winding dark cave. "My servants answer only to me. And since I want no harm to come to you, they shall not hurt you."

Estel shivered, every particle and thought in his mind doubting that statement, but with his limbs tied, he could do nothing. He could only decide not to give it the benefit of seeing his fear, and said nothing, clenching his jaw. The voice did not speak for a few moments, which was enough time for the torch carriers to arrive.

Though he was momentarily blinded by the bright flames, he could not mistake the acrid smell of rotting flesh that came with the creatures, though he had only encountered them twice before.

Orcs. At least five of them.

He blinked, but even in the light, he could not find the one who had spoken. Only the gruff breathing of the Orcs could be heard, as their black eyes glittered with a terrible hunger as they looked at him. The tallest one, bandy-legged and crooked-backed, took a sidestep toward him, sniffing. Estel almost fainted from the fetid stench that rolled off of the creature in billows.

At his obvious display of revulsion, the thing laughed. "Man-flesh…" he rolled the words across his tongue as if he was already tasting his dinner. "Man-flesh for us to eat?" he asked the air around him, and the other foul creatures sniggered at the prospect of having fresh meat.

"No, Snaga," the voice only held a hint of reprimanding. "He is not to be harmed in any way… physically. He must still be able to run and wield a sword. I have other plans for him. He is not for eating."

A look of regret came across the Orcs' faces, and Estel could have sworn he saw a sign of a pout on Snaga's hideous lips. "Not for eating?" he grunted, turning those simple words into the worst of curses with his offensive grate of a voice. "Then what is he good for?"

The silence after Snaga's words was just enough to make the next line ominous.

"Use your imagination."

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**Thanks for hanging in their with me, you guys. I really appreciate it. Please review!**


	16. Chapter 15: The Imagination of an Orc

**Yes! Another chapter! Thanks for staying with me, you guys.

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Chapter 15

**The Imagination of an Orc**

Ranien blinked in the darkness and turned, checking again that the three other dark figures were still behind him. Then, once again, he peered into the gloom of eaves and night, trying to make out the swaying line of the path. Shadows of mist seemed to grow out of the impending undergrowth, their soft shapes beckoning invitingly at the four guards.

The Mirkwood elf cocked his head, listening for the familiar guiding sounds of the night, but like before, found none. Though he had been raised among the trees of this forest, he had never been this far south before without companions that were older and wiser than he. His eyes were better adapted to the night than the others', but it was not the natural darkness of night that clouded his vision.

He knew of the evils that lurked in this untamed part of the forest. Creatures of shadow thrived here, and traveling so near Dol Guldur with such a small group was possibly one of the most foolish things he had ever done. He knew, without the protection of the animals, the giant spiders or something worse could attack them at any time. Only armed lightly, they would not survive an attack from a mass gathering of spiders.

"Ranien?" Lindir called questioningly at his unexpected halt.

The other elf held up a hand, but remembered that his travel mates could not see in the dark as well as he could. "Wait," he intoned, and left it at that.

He bent his head again, concentrating. It had been a gift that he had received long ago, taught to him by an old wood elf who had been ready to cross the sea. Now, if he focused, he could hear the thoughts of almost every wild animal and trees. He concentrated on the thoughts of the trees, listening into their very core.

He had done this several times as they traveled before, and Gildor was aware of these lapses of silence. Now, unable to see in a surrounding he did not know, even the oldest elf lord needed a connection to something else. "The trees," he whispered. "What do they say?"

Ranien did not answer.

He had always found it amusing that people assumed that seeing other's thoughts was like reading a book. Perhaps it was that way for the minds of the Free Peoples. He did not know, for he had never been able to listen to their thoughts. But the thoughts of animals and the trees were quite different.

They did not think in words. Their thoughts were clear, unmarred by the impurities of words that the Free People had adopted to communicate their thoughts. When he listened, he_ heard _pictures, saw flashes of movement, and raw emotions that pervaded the being.

He closed his eyes, bowed his head, and listened.

So far the trees had not led him astray.

His mind reached out to the nearest tree, only to be repelled by the tree's dark core. Its thoughts were no longer clear and its intentions were against the members of the small band. It had switched sides to help the Shadow. He had come across too many of these already.

He moved on and touched the next tree with his mind. Suddenly, his thoughts were thrust into another time.

_Twilight in the forest. The weak light of the sun was almost not enough to enter the mass of trees to touch the ground, but little patches of gray in the undergrowth showed the time of day. The last dregs of the warmth of the day spread out on its uppermost leaves, barely giving it the right nutrients. _

_Soon, it would have to close its leaves to avoid losing too much of its moisture. _

_The earth suddenly pounded. Its roots gripped the dirt, steadying itself as the vibration grew closer. _

_Flashes of dark figures. _

_Running feet. _

_The red flower dancing on dead boughs, climbing dangerously close to its own eaves. _

_A white face in a sea of blackness. _

_Peace. _

Ranien drew back, mentally as well as physically, with a gasp. If he had seen correctly, Estel had passed this way, along with Orcs and fire.

"What is it?" Lindir immediately asked, his voice prominent against the silence because of its beautiful musical quality.

"This way. They came this way," the Mirkwood elf said, as he lightly stepped forward, quickening his pace. "The trees told me."

* * *

The two elves jumped to their feet at Cuiladan's start, and both leaped for the journal. "How?" Elladan asked, astonished, and sitting down on the dried leaves next to the man. Elrohir also quietly sat, the expression on his face asking the same question.

The man bit his lip, still staring at the rows of letters in front of his face. "It did not hit me at first, but then I realized that Morwen must have learned the Tengwar after she learned the Common Tongue. Perhaps she does not speak Sindarin it well, meaning that she also cannot write it. But she can use the Tengwar, and therefore, must have used it to write in the Common Tongue.

"Look here," he pointed at the first line of gibberish. "The basic concept is actually very easy. She just reversed the _lúva_ **(bow)** on each of the letters." When the elves gave him incredulous looks, he expanded on his explanation. "See, this letter has a _telco_ **(stem)** that drops down and the _lúva _is open, facing right. All she did was make the _lúva _closed and make it face left. Basically, if you line the letters up in their _témar _**(series) **and _tyeller _**(grades)**, you'll see that you can just switch the letters in the first series with the letters of the fourth series.

"So, taking our first letter, which makes a '_t' _sound, it would become the fourth letter, or a _'k_' sound."

Elladan threw up his hands. "Too simple!" he cried, rolling his eyes for not seeing this first. Then, stopping, he added, "But then, everything is when you understand the fundamental idea behind it."

"Good eyes," Elrohir praised Cuiladan, and the man laughed.

"Not really," he replied. "I was actually not focusing on the letters when I first saw it."

The brothers quickly scrawled a key, exchanging the first series of letters for the fourth, and the second for the third, for quick reference when reading the notebook. After a few cursory flips, they saw that every entry was written in this cryptic code, and were very relieved that they did not have to waste time figuring out another.

Finally, they turned to the last page, hoping it was the most pertinent, and set down to write the translation.

This was what they got:

* * *

April 15, 2950 of the Third Age

_My Dear Lord, _

_I have not written for fear of discovery. _

_Today we are near level ground. The Misty Mountains have proved to be a safe passage into Wilderland. The two elven brothers have no suspicion of who or what I am, and the rest are all too trusting of me. They still believe that I am a slave of Rohan and that I can only speak broken sentences of the Common Tongue. _

_Cuiladan and Estel are still a mystery. They have said nothing that gives a clue to their birth, yet they call Elladan and Elrohir "brother." I have seduced the elder of these brothers, and perhaps, through this, he may tell me of his origin. _

_There has been no word of an Arathorn III in all of my travels. If he is indeed alive, his secret is well kept and those that know of him are either dead or mute. I will continue to follow this band of travelers, for I already know their purpose. I will carry out my duty as soon as I speak with my other Master._

_Your servant always, _

M. of L.

* * *

Though Cuiladan had known that Morwen was working for another, he had to read this twice before he fully grasped its meaning. Then, when he did, he felt a plunging sensation in his chest, and suddenly, could hardly breathe from the pain.

The others were silent as well, until Elrohir said quietly, "Well, there you have it, Cuiladan. She never really loved you. She pretended to all along just to wheedle information out of you." The man closed his eyes, biting his lip so hard that he drew blood, but the external pain did nothing to quench the pain within his heart.

Elladan furrowed his brows, feeling sympathy for the man, and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. Softly, but firmly, he counseled, "I know it grieves you to learn of this. But we must put that off until later." When Cuiladan showed no signs of hearing or moving, he exchanged a glance with his twin and put another hand on the man's other shoulder so that he was facing him fully. "Cuiladan, _forget_ this pain for now. There are other matters more important at hand. She mentioned an Arathorn III."

"Which means that the Shadow must know of your existence," Elrohir cut in. "He may not know yet who exactly you are, but he knows that there is an heir to the throne of Gondor. That is too much of a threat to his power for him to ignore. Morwen was sent on a mission to find out who Arathorn III was."

Cuiladan still did not respond.

"Cuiladan," Elrohir warned. "You _are_ Arathorn III. You cannot deny it any longer."

Elladan hesitated before adding, "And now, they have Estel, and they may as well torture the information from him if they already suspect that you are the heir."

At this, Cuiladan opened his eyes, their dark pupils full of fear. Flashes of torture chambers and blood came to his mind, and for a moment, Morwen was forgotten. Like lightning, he sprang up and snatched the notebook from the ground. "There has to be something in here about where he might be!"

* * *

"Oh, he'll be able to run and wield a sword after I'm through with him," the Orc snarled and grinned. He advanced with no precaution, knowing that Estel had no other forms of defense.

"Just don't forget to unwrap him first," another Orc told Snaga, distorting his words with sarcasm and ridicule.

Snaga growled and unsheathed a knife, coming towards the boy. Estel stifled a scream and tried to scramble away from his attacker. The Orc growled, and stepped behind the squirming human and cut the bonds that bound his feet.

Not knowing why his captors would try and free him, and unnerved by the silence of the Voice, Estel again tried to gain ground. This time, it was easier, as his feet were apart and his boots touched the dirt of the cave.

However, he had not even gotten to his knees when a meaty hand grabbed his shoulder and slammed him onto his back. His head hit the floor with a loud _thunk_, and his vision blurred, as his throat went dry. "Don't even think about it." Hot, putrid breath hit Estel full in the face, nearly sending him into unconsciousness. Snaga was now directly on top of him.

With sheer will alone, the boy forced his eyes open. The glint of the torches reflected off the thin blade in the Orc's hand. Snaga lowered it, as if going in for the kill. Not able to hold in his fear any longer, Estel screamed, a burst of air flowing from his lungs. His legs tried to scramble free from the weight of his assaulter, but Snaga only laughed.

"Hold still, boy, or I may have to cut off the useless piece of equipment between your legs."

Estel was so stunned that he actually stopped moving, giving the Orc ample time to pull the knife across the drawstrings of his pants. With a swift motion, as if he had done this many times before, Snaga ripped away the remnant of the cloth around his legs.

Suddenly, Estel understood. The Orcs hungered for flesh in more ways than one, and while he was not going to be used to satisfy their need to feed, the Voice had said nothing about not introducing him to the carnal knowledge of these foul creatures.

**TBC...**

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**If you have any questions about the Tengwar code that I mentioned, feel free to ask me and I will try and answer your questions to the best of my ability!**

**Please review!**


	17. Chapter 16: Meeting

**Chapter 16 **

**Meeting**

"We are not getting anywhere!" Cuiladan hissed to his brothers as he slapped at another mosquito. Though it was still spring, and the night air was cool, swarms of these little parasites had emerged as soon as the three decided to leave their small circle. Of course, Elladan and Elrohir seemed to avoid these nuisances, but without the privileges of an elf, Cuiladan was the soon covered with small, itchy bumps.

"Sh!" Elladan hissed.

All three stopped moving and listened intently, but there was only the soft swishing of the wind above them. Cuiladan, annoyed and worried sick of Estel, proceeded to continue, but was grabbed by Elrohir, who glared at him in the dark. Apparently, he had heard something that Cuiladan had not. The man followed his gaze to the small patch of tall undergrowth before them.

At first, he saw nothing.

Then, just to be sure, he stuck a finger in his mouth and held it up in the dense air to check.

There was certainly no wind so low to the forest floor, but the bushes and vegetation before them were _moving_.

* * *

Snaga neared, knife in hand, holding it threateningly close so the boy could not move his head without cutting his jugular. Estel's hands were still tied behind him so that his fingers were pressed painfully into his back. He dared not move.

"Turn around, you useless piece of meat!" the Orc spoke gutturally.

_No!_ the boy's mind cried. If he did, he would be at the complete mercy of the foul creature. He had no desire to be humiliated in such a degrading way. He hesitated, legs splayed like an idiot, with his tunic going just past mid-thigh.

"Do it!" Snaga hissed.

How could he get out of this? Fantastic escape plans and unrealistic thoughts strayed through his mind, but he knew that they would most likely get him killed. _I need to stay alive for Naneth and Cuiladan_, he thought. There had to be a way out of this living hell.

Without thinking, he suddenly struck out. He brought up his right leg until his knee was nearly touching his chest and kicked up, hoping his aim was true. The Valar seemed to be smiling upon him, for Snaga flew backwards, letting go of the knife and holding the area between his bowed legs.

With his remaining strength, Estel jumped to his feet before the other Orcs around could react. The Voice seemed to have moved on to something else, as its presence was no longer in the cave, and it did not know what had happened. The boy's vision blurred slightly as the altitude made him light-headed, and he blinked away the spots around his eyes.

"Get him!" another guttural voice sounded, and he heard the ringing of metal.

_Go!_ his mind shouted, and he ran blindly forward, unable to think clearly. Why had Cuiladan, Elrohir, and Elladan never given him any advice on how to escape a den full of Orcs with his hands tied behind his back?

_Because you probably cannot_, the sarcastic part of his mind told him. He was surprised that he was still capable of irony when he could not even find a way to move past his first Orc.

_Use your head!_ Cuiladan had told him.

_Sounds good_, his mind replied dryly, and he stumbled forward, head down, running without any balance with his hands tied behind him, and charged the nearest Orc. It must have been so surprised that it forgot about the weapon in its hand because Estel's head connected with its stomach armor and his sheer momentum forced it off its feet.

It fell back into its partner's sword, and next moment, was looking at a strange piece of metal protruding from his chest before it died. The other Orc, weighed down by the dead, yelled for the others to kill the boy.

Snaga seemed to have recovered behind him and rose with double its vengeance, the wicked-looking knife still in hand. As the others advanced, Estel knew he had to back up. Turning so that he stood perpendicular to both parties, he began to crab-walk towards Snaga.

The Orc snarled and leaped for the kill just as the other two charged forward. The boy looked left and right, head spinning and not knowing what to do. He was sure he would die between the two blades, as he had nothing but his flesh to protect him. At the last second, his feet seemed to unfreeze and he stepped back until he touched the sticky wall of the cave behind him.

The creatures could not stop in time and collided, one of the swords finding its way through Snaga's throat. It gurgled, and the boy shuddered as fountains of crimson spread across the dirt. The other Orc cried out, a knife through its stomach and fell forward, its face crushed into the ground.

Surprised at his good luck, Estel faked a right and dodged by the other two Orcs who followed his first move, his heart beating faster all the while. He could barely make out what was in front of him because of the dim torchlights, but he continued forward, loping strangely like an injured dog. He did not look back, but kept running, dimly aware of the snarling and yelling that was occurring behind him.

Once in a while, he saw the orange flicker of torchlights around him, but for the most part, all he remembered of that night's run was the darkness in front of him and the cool, almost moist, dirt beneath his bare feet. After a time, even the occasional, faint call of the Orcs faded away, and he fell blissfully into the oncoming night and sound of his feet on the ground.

The cool night air caught him by surprise, and the breeze in his face started him. He was not aware that he had emerged from the cave, but suddenly, he could see the stars above his head. His mind seemed to reengage, and he realized that he had not seen stars since he arrived in Mirkwood forest.

His eyes swept the ground, lit by the moon and stars, and he realized that stumps scattered across the undergrowth where trees had once been. They had been cut down, but to feed what? He moved his face to the south and gasped at what he saw.

A black tower loomed before him, dark and fearsome in the wholesome night. Estel felt as if there was a raging fire engulfing the surroundings of this pinnacle, though nothing but dead shrubs could be seen for three hundred paces all around. Something other than night created the darkness around the tower, and something other than good lived within its walls.

All at once, he knew where he was. He had heard about it in his childhood at Rivendell, and its title had been spoken with shudders during his first adventure. This, he finally understood, was the dreaded stronghold and city of Dol Guldur.

* * *

Suddenly, the rustling behind the vegetations stopped. Cuiladan held his breath and waited. Nothing moved.

"What is it?" Elrohir asked quietly, his voice just barely audible, as he stood right behind the man's ear.

"Don't know," Elladan spoke back with the same volume. "Perhaps nothing. Could be just a rabbit."

Cuiladan's hand found its way to the sword at his hip. Slowly, without a sound, he loosed it from its sheath. "Could be," he whispered back. "Except rabbits do not come this far south in Mirkwood Forest."

He saw that Elladan's hand was going to his hip as well, where his long knife was. "On my count," he said. "One." Cuiladan's sword was half way out of its sheath already. "Two." Elrohir removed his elven blade from his back. "THREE!"

The two elves rushed forward, just as two shafts flew in their direction. Only their lightning quick senses stopped them from being shot, as they immediately dodged to the sides, the arrow flying harmlessly by and planting themselves in the trunks of trees, just as Cuiladan ducked.

Before Elladan and Elrohir could get back into position, Cuiladan found himself facing three dark figures with blades above their heads. He gave a cry, forgetting where he was, and leaped forward, his sword at the ready.

To his surprise, the three figures stopped and jumped back as he came at them. One of them was sensible enough to parry his blow with a swift knife. It was so powerful that it knocked the blade out of the man's hand. In the dark, he heard it fly and land harmlessly with a _whoosh_ in a pile of vegetation.

"Cuiladan, stop!"

He froze at the familiar voice, and took a step back, almost tripping over a root. His throat went dry, but he did not have to respond, for one of the twins whispered hoarsely, "Ranien?"

Not having the eyes of an elf, the man could not see anything except a few black shadows among the trees, but he finally recognized the voice. "Yes, it is I. Gildor and Lindir are here as well," the wood elf spoke quietly.

"What are you doing this way?" Elladan asked. "Were you not sent in the other direction?"

Lindir's musical voice interrupted the conversation. "Precisely. But Ranien has a connection with the trees of this forest. They remember the way that the Orcs went. He can see their thoughts and memories."

The small band was silent for a second, each member very glad that they had found each other. It meant that there was still hope, for the six of them to find each other in such a large area. Perhaps they would actually find Estel. _No. Not perhaps_, Cuiladan thought firmly. _We _will_ find Estel._

"So he has been leading you?" Elrohir asked thoughtfully.

"Yes," Gildor grumbled. "And more and more to the south, I might add."

Of all the elves, Gildor was the least comfortable in the forest. The darkness and the oppressing air seemed to close tighter and tighter around him the more south he went. He loathed the forest, and that was not to mention the great evil that he knew lay in Dol Guldur.

"Then you shall continue to lead," Elrohir said. "The forest is your home, Ranien. You know it better than any of us. Please, lead us to Estel."

"Follow me," Ranien answered, and prayed to the Valar that the trees would not fail him.

**TBC...**

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**Please review, everyone! I know I haven't been updating, but I finally got my AP scores back, and I can continue writing, so reviews encourage me... :)**


	18. Chapter 17: Dreams of Longing

**Yes! I am updating! My gosh, hello again everyone... I'm finally back from my... er... million month hiatus. :) Sorry that this took so long!

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Chapter 17

**Dreams of Longing

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Morwen was dreaming.

She was certain of it.

The worlds around her fizzled and distorted, changing first from fuzzy shapes to sharp, clear objects, down to the last detail. And yet, though she knew she was not awake, she could not get her mind to control her lucid dream.

Though her feet did not move, she was walking down a long hall. Here, the details did not matter, and the walls were blurs of brown and the occasional colors of a flag of the horses. It was a world seen through a child's brief, glancing eyes, or perhaps as seen through the eyes of a child when he is an adult looking back.

Memories.

That was what it was.

She was traveling through time, through her memories of her new home in Rohan. The halls were lined with dark, oak slabs, brought from forests far from Edoras, where she and her lord resided, but she could not recall how they looked. It must have been because she had walked by them a hundred times, ceasing to notice them after the first or second glance.

Outside a room at the end of the hall, she stopped, or at least, the building stopped advancing; she never remembered moving one foot. From the doorway, she could see, now, in the best of detail, the boards of the two narrow walls that opened up into her bedroom.

_Their _bedroom, she remembered. It was her husband's, as well, though he had many other chambers where he could spend the night.

The walls danced with bright lights and leaping shadows, and Morwen smelled the cozy aromas of burning wood. A few crackles and pops confirmed that there was indeed a fire going in the long abandoned fireplace in the corner, across from the bed.

And there was something else… Something she had never felt before in this room. Warmth flushed her cheeks, and she was surprised that this detail caught her mind. Dreams were never in detail.

Peals of delighted laughter pierced the air like jingles on a horse's reins in the middle of a snowy winter evening. Just listening made her heart ache with need, made her want to look inside, made her feel the urge to join them.

A human voice, deep and rich, rumbled like soft thunder against the walls, and more laughter issued. It was the laughter of pure joy, filled with innocence and naivety so that it could only have belonged to children. A pang of raw hunger thumped against her chest, and she realized how much she wanted children.

It was one of those things that she had planned on doing in the future, but when she had gotten into the third year of her marriage and still showed no sign of pregnancy, her husband had began to wander. It was then that she grew up and actually became an adult. Her childhood fantasies of true love and heroic men were erased and replaced by the harsh truth that she had only been married off by her father for an entirely political reason. Her husband did not enjoy her company in bed; in fact, he would rather be out of it than in it. He had only endured her because she was the only way for him to have a legitimate heir.

She edged closer to the doorway, and finally, though the part of her that was still in control knew it was wrong, drifted in upon the voices.

It was then that she realized what she was seeing. She had had this dream many times before, and though she did not know why, she still never recognized the beginning of it. It was her childhood view of marriage to the perfect man, except here, her perfect man was her husband.

The five in the room did not see nor hear as she came in, but continued their activities as if she was not there. She realized that to them, she really was not. Even in her dream, she was merely an apparition, watching and feeding hungrily as others lived out her blissful wishes.

Beside the bed was a large, comfortable couch, and her husband and another woman were sitting on it, his arm around her shoulder, and she leaning into him lovingly. Upon second glance, she realized that it was her, albeit a cleaner, plumper, and more beautiful her, it was still her. They were speaking encouragements to the three children, who were playing on the rug, before the fireplace.

Two lovely girls, neither over ten, were setting out dolls around a few blocks that they were using as tea sets. The other child, a healthy, ruddy-cheeked boy with golden locks was bouncing a ball near them and occasionally, the ball would run into the dolls, knocking them into their "tea."

She looked again at the figures on the couch, and between gentle admonishments and smiles at the children, the two would turn to one another and speak in low voices, their noses almost touching. As she watched, their lips met in a brief, but meaningful kiss, and the cleaner, plumper, and more beautiful her leaned her head against her husband's chest.

Her vision blurred again, and suddenly, the scene before her began to fade. It was as if an invisible force had taken her around the waist and lifted her up, through the roof, through the sky, and completely out of this imaginary world that she had created in her subconscious.

Slowly and painfully, she woke to reality with her head pounding and her heart racing with want. Real tears were on her cheeks, but before she could wipe them away, the Voice again called her name harshly in the darkness. "Morwen!"

She sat up, heart pounding in her chest. She swallowed through her dry lips and tried to remember the dream, but it was seeping away like water in cupped hands. She could have been so happy…

Oh Valar, her husband was faithful, and she had children…

But after all, it was just a dream.

"Morwen!" the Voice was more insistent this time.

"Yes, my lord," she mumbled, wiping at the tears on her cheek. She found that she could not say anything else. She was not allowed to disobey.

"They approach," the Voice said, almost smugly. "Would you be kind enough to lure them in?"

She wanted to scream and break away so she could run, but she found that her legs were lead. Instead, her body seemed to be guided by an invisible force. She stood as her legs unfolded underneath her, and her arms went out to find her balance, all without her control. Slowly, she began to walk towards the door to her chamber (prison cell, the part of her that was still her whispered), and stepped into the light.

"Of course, my lord," she said in the same, mumbling tone.

"Are you forgetting anything?" the Voice asked.

"No, my lord," she answered.

"I want them dead," the Voice said simply.

"Yes, I know, my lord." With a stead hand, she withdrew a long, white dagger from a sheath at her waist.

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**Please review!**


	19. Chapter 18: Trapped

**Sorry, everyone. I haven't updated this story in about eight months. As an excuse, I must say that my junior year has been the most hectic year of my educational career. I am a full IB diploma candidate, so please cut me some slack. Anyway, seeing that it is summer now, I will be able to update much more. Please continue to review! Thank you! **

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**Chapter 18**

**Trapped**

"And that," Ranien whispered huskily, "is Dol Guldur." He looked towards the desolate grounds beyond the trees, and though his elven heart was brave, he quavered at the darkness that blotted out even the stars. Though he had lived all of his life in these woods, he had never before been into the southern forest with such a small band. Only by using his fear as a compass and using his legs as a shield against it, was he able to finally find the evil city.

The others were silent with fear.

Finally, Elladan found his voice, and nodded, his dark head rustling. "And we have come to destroy it," he also whispered in high elven. "To unseat the evil that took our mother so long ago."

Orophin nodded once, his silence matching the darkness of the bewitched city. "Careful," he said, opening his mouth for perhaps the tenth time since the journey began. "The scheme has changed now. They must know that we are in the forest, and they will be ever watchful for us."

Lindir leaped from his position behind the tree and scanned the area with his powerful eyes. "No Orcs. Not even a single watch. The very fear instilled by the atmosphere must drive away all invaders."

Cuiladan nodded. "Let us proceed."

Together, the small band stepped from their hiding places and dispersed across the barren place. The man noticed that even grass had not the nerve to grow in such a place. The perpetual darkness offered nourishment to nothing.

Elladan was again the leader, though in the dark, they could barely see his swift figure before them. Slowly, but surely, the small team moved forward across the clearing, their minds ever on the Shadow and what he had taken from them.

Suddenly, Elladan hissed sharply and raised a hand. Even before he uttered a word, the others had seen what had stopped him. It was the only thing that emitted light in the forsaken wasteland, and it came in the form of a woman wearing a long white dress. She saw them, they knew, though they could not see her eyes. Still, she did not pause but moved towards them, carrying a small lantern in one hand.

"It's Morwen!" Cuiladan suddenly said in a choked voice. Even from a distance, he could make out her dark hair and her pale face.

Immediately, Elrohir put a hand on the man's arm, stopping him from rushing forward. For a moment, Cuiladan had forgotten the woman's treachery and the fact that she had betrayed them and taken his brother. However, Cuiladan's cry seemed to have frozen the small group in place, for none of them moved as the woman approached them.

When she came up to them, there was no expression on her face. Instead, she looked weary and accepting. "I know where they have hidden Estel," were the first words out of her mouth. "I know that you know longer trust me, but if you want to find him, you must come with me. The Shadow knows that I am here, but It does not have a complete hold on me yet. Please, you must hurry!"

Cuiladan took a step forward, but the others did not budge. "You have lied to us twice," Elladan said steadily. "How can you expect us to trust you?"

There was still no expression on her face. "I do not expect you to trust me. I expect you to care enough for this boy to go after him despite the danger. I know where he is, and the only way to him is for you to follow me." It was only then that Cuiladan realized the thing material with which her white frock was made. In the cold, darkness, he could not believe that she was not shivering.

Something in his heart told him that this was a trap, but he knew that despite everything, there was something about Morwen that he could still trust. Slowly, Elrohir's grip loosened on the man's arm, and the elf gave the man a look in the darkness. From the man's eyes, he saw the desire to trust the woman, but even more evident was the desire to find his little brother.

"We have no choice but to follow her," he said in High Elven to Elladan so that the woman would not understand. "We do not know our way, and more than likely, we will attract the attention of some guard. We cannot fight the power of the Shadow yet."

His twin nodded once, and in the common tongue, he said to Morwen, "Then lead us to Estel. But I warn you, if you lead us into a trap, your end will be worse than you ever dreamed."

Cuiladan gave Elrohir a look of thanks, but it went unanswered, as the other elf was already following the receding figure of the girl.

None of them knew that in her mind, she was thinking, _Whatever end you have planned for me, it will be nothing compared to what my master will do if I do not obey him. Oh, Cuiladan, I am sorry_.

To Cuiladan, it seemed as if Morwen was leading them to the very depths of hell, for there seemed to be no end to the trail. The darkness pressed in all around them, and there was nothing to keep them from being attacked by Orcs.

However, as they walked, the trees began to clear, and for the first time in their travel through Mirkwood, Cuiladan saw the stars.

"There," Morwen said, suddenly stopping. She pointed towards the darkness in front of her, but because of the stars, the others could still see her thin figure. "The Orcs do not dare come out, even at night, because they fear the heavens and the stars. But they are swarming within that shadow of Dol Guldur. You will find your brother there."

Elladan suddenly grabbed his twin brother's arm and hissed in Quenya, "Look, there!" In the shadows, they saw a thin figure, about the size of a man, looking toward the heavens, as if frozen. His arms were spread out, but nothing came toward him. Morwen seemed to have been telling the truth when she had said that the Orcs would not attack them.

"It could be him," Elrohir whispered back. The others in the group overheard him, and they looked toward the figure in the dark. Cuiladan's heart wrenched at the sight of the figure, knowing, in his heart, that it was his brother. His face was turned toward the heavens, as if praying to the Valar for safety. He had been waiting for them to come and rescue him. Estel had always been so innocent.

"Be careful," Lindir said to them, knowing that they were surrounded by the evils of Dol Guldur, but Cuiladan was already running forward.

"Cuiladan!" Ranien cried in disbelief. The man was not one to rush into things. However, he did not hear the elf, and continued to run toward his brother.

"After him!" Elladan ordered in Westron. The group did not have to be told twice, and they charged after the sprinting man. They did not notice that Morwen had fallen behind them, reluctant to go on.

It was then that the world shook.

The earth beneath their very feet began to quake, and the darkness became whole. The stars were suddenly veiled, and all Cuiladan could remember was his feet flying up from under him and the trees all around the clearing groaning as their roots left the earth. He landed on his back and could not get up again for his body would not obey him while the world shook uncontrollably.

Despite their grace, the elves also fell, their feet losing their balance as the ground began to grow and shrink in places. Under Elladan's body, the dirt grew to a tremendous height, and he slid backward, losing grip of his sword, which slid from his scabbard.

"The Enemy!" he heard Elrohir cry, before the rumbling of the forest drowned out his voice. The words were unnecessary. The darkness, the earthquake, and the destruction of the forest could have been only done by one being: the Shadow in Dol Guldur. Nothing else had so much power.

And then, all was silent, but Elladan still could not see anything. The darkness was complete.

Then, suddenly, a voice boomed through the forest.

"Idiots," the Voice said, laughter bubbling up in its voice. Elladan's heart clenched within him. He had not been afraid of anything for many centuries, but at hearing the chill of this voice, he felt the cold hand of fear creep up his spine. He was rendered immobile by it. "She lied to you so many times, and yet, you still trusted her. You would have been wise to leave your brother."

"Is everyone still alive?" Elrohir asked, finding his voice despite his fear. "Answer me, if you are!"

"I am here," Lindir's voice called.

The others answered as well. Cuiladan answered, despite the sinking feeling in his heart. Again, this small band was in danger because of his rashness. If only he had not rushed forward… If only he had not listened _again_ to that witch! If only he could still save Estel…

Morwen was the only one who did not.

"She was working for me, of course," the Voice continued, its tone harsher, and for once, the entire band felt its power. "And, now, you will die… slowly. I always had a place in my heart for the sons of Elrond."

The sky suddenly cleared, and they all could see the stars. Suddenly, they realized that their vision was limited. They were in a pit.

* * *

Estel leaped to his feet as the sky cleared. He had been unable to move when the Voice had spoken, but he knew that he had heard the voices of his brothers and the others. _They must have come back for me!_ he thought, his heart leaping into his throat. But the earthquake and the moving of the trees… what had been the purpose of that?

He stumbled forward and tripped on a root.

He gave out a hoarse cry as he fell, and suddenly, the ground around him was moving again. Estel peered forward and saw that he was at the edge of a pit. His hands moved uselessly against the dirt; he could not get to his feet.

The rumbling of the forest was deafening.

He found his way to his knees and peered up. A mountain loomed just behind the pit, and as the earth shook, so did the mountain. And then, the rocks began to fall.

"Cuiladan!"

Even over the sounds of the falling rocks, Estel could make out his brother's name. He crawled forward with all his strength, the shaking ground cutting through his leggings and leaving marks on his shins, knees, and thighs.

"Elladan!" he screamed, trying to make his voice heard over the chaos. "Elrohir! Cuiladan!" He did not know if they could hear him. All he knew was that they were in the pit.

"Estel!"

He could barely hear the cry over the noise, but he crawled forward nonetheless and peered over the pit. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. But when he looked down again, he realized what he was seeing.

His brothers and the elven guards were at the bottom of the pit.

And Cuiladan was trapped beneath a rock.

* * *

**TBC... **


	20. Chapter 19: Rescued

I know I haven't updated for more than a year now, but I get really bad writer's block when I get to the climax of my stories. So, to my readers, I'm sorry you had to wait so long to get an update. School hasn't helped either. But, now that it's summer and I've gotten into the college of my choice, I will be able to update a lot more. Expect the ending to this installment up within the next few weeks.

Please review! :)

* * *

**Chapter 19**

**Rescue**

* * *

In an instant, he was moving, ignoring the pain in his legs and arms. He ran the other way, the woods coming up closer and closer to him. He needed something… anything, anything at all.

"Augh!" His scream was cut short as he tripped, his elbows and forearms catching his fall. "Son of an Orc!" He pounded his hand on the ground. Part of his fist landed on something that stuck up from the dirt, and he drew his arm back. Even in the dim light, he could see the outline of the object, and his heart leaped into his throat.

"Thank the Valar," he murmured a prayer under his breath, and picked up the vine that had fallen on the ground. He stood and pulled as hard as he could on the vine, but suddenly, the ground rumbled again, and he found himself falling again. The mountain of rocks next to the pit shook and seemed ready to collapse.

"I am coming!" Estel screamed over the sounds of the earth. He did not know what evil this was, but he knew he needed to overcome it. He picked up the vine again and ran to the edge of the pit, where he let the vine fall in. "Grab on!"

However, the elves were too busy trying to get Cuiladan out from under the rock. Again, the ground shook, and the pile of stones next to the pit wobbled. Estel's heart leaped into his throat.

* * *

Morwen could tell the dark cloud was weakening. It receded to a thin smoke behind the trees of the woods. This was what always happened when it was outside, in the clean air. The goodness in the world was still strong enough to defeat darkness, even if it was only from the earth, the trees, and the sky.

It had made the ground shake, had created the pit, and now, was still trying to cover the pit again. The sons of Elrond were there, along with the Elvish guard. And, her heart ached at the thought, so was Cuiladan. But, she could do nothing. She was bound to the power, and it had commanded her to do nothing more than watch. His will was hers, and therefore, she could not move.

She watched again helplessly as the ground shook once more in an earthquake at the will of the darkness. Her chest pained her. _I cannot let this happen_, her conscience screamed, but she had long learned that she could not always follow her conscience.

_Look at the good work you have done_, she sneered at herself. _You loved a man to his death, and you wonder why Thengel will not even sleep in the same bed as you. You reek of danger. Thengel already knew that. He knew you were of darkness. And now, a good man will die because of you._

She tried to will this thought away. However, the darkness had a control on her actions, but not on her mind. It was free to wander where it wished, and always, it flashed to her Cuiladan's face. He had been kind to her when no one else thought her of any worth. He had loved her for who she was, even when they had thought her to be Eordhe, a mere slave. He, of all people, had thought that she mattered, and here she was, about to let him die. _I cannot._

The words seemed to come out of nowhere, but once she thought them, she was determined. She looked once toward the Shadow. It was again diminishing. It was so weak that Morwen was not sure how it could still stand to stay in the cool, moonless night.

Perhaps, just perhaps…

Morwen took a step. It came almost effortlessly. The Shadow really was losing its power.

* * *

"Gildor, climb!" Elladan screamed from inside the pit. "We only need two here to help him. The rest of you, climb!"

The other elves were reluctant to move, but the tentative stability of the pile of rocks made them see sense. "If you need help, call us!" Ranien cried, and handed the vine to Gildor.

Estel, watching this from where he stood, suddenly realized the flaw in his plan. He could by no means hold up four elves if they were to climb up the vine, but now, he could not let go and find a tree to tie the vine. There would be no time. The mountain of stone would fall and kill them all before that happened.

"Estel, let me."

A familiar voice sounded close to his ear, and a cool hand fell on his shoulder. He turned to find Morwen looking back at him with fearful eyes. Immediately, his heart filled with hate. She had been the reason they were all here in the first place. Had they not followed her, they would have been fine, and may have even been able to fulfill their father's mission of destroy the evil that lay within Mirkwood forest.

"Get your hands off of me," he snarled, and pushed the woman to the ground. "Have you not caused enough trouble?"

Morwen picked herself up with dignity, her eyes imploring. "Please, I want to help."

Estel snorted, and pulled on the vine. Already, the weight was too much for him. He fell to the ground so that his entire body could absorb the weight of the four elves climbing. "Had you really wanted to help, we would not be in this mess right now," he said through clenched teeth.

"No, you do not understand!" her voice was at the point of breaking. "I can't let Cuiladan die down there." Estel would have laughed had not the sincerity in her voice strike something in his own heart. "I… I love him."

The boy wanted to brush off this comment as something the woman would say to get back into his favor again, but he could not. There was something genuine in the inflection of her voice that even the best actress could not portray. He sighed, wondering why he was believing Morwen again. "Take the end of the vine and find something to tie it to. Make a good knot, for I can no longer hold them."

He was not sure that Morwen had heard him, until he felt something tug at the other end of the vine. He dared not look back, for all of his strength was concentrated on the four elves at the other end of the vine. If he let go, they would tumble down again, and even an elf would not survive the fall from the top of that chasm.

His arms strained, and his muscles quivered. But just when he thought he would let go of the rope, Gildor appeared at the top of the abyss.

* * *

The Darkness saw her move away from him, of her own free will. However, too much of its power was concentrated on the movement of the earth. He could spare no energy to reign her in. _Let her go_, it told itself. _You have more worthy servants. And the chance to kill the sons of Elrond is only once in a long Age._

With this, it called upon the powers of the night, and bellowed to the heavens. With the last reserve of its strength, it pushed the earth to move, shaking the very trees to their roots and lighting up the sky with its fury.

Lightning crashed down from the heavens and split open three trees to its left.

"Yes!" it cried in triumph. This was the power it craved.

This would end here. Tonight.

* * *

Gildor ran to the aid of Morwen, whose clumsy fingers were beginning to slow as the Shadow mustered more power. The vine slid through her hands many times, until he snatched the vine from her and wound it tightly around a tree trunk.

"I am bound to the Shadow!" she cried, falling back, her limbs becoming useless as the entire forest rumbled with a deep rolling of doom. Her master was becoming more and more powerful. "Its hold is increasing on me, but I know how you can defeat it!" Gildor seemed to pay no heed as he made a sturdy knot with the vine. "It cannot stand anything of Elven make!" she continued, though she did not know how long her voice would last. "You must take it when it is unbidden and force it into a powerful source of Elvish magic!"

When the elf continued to ignore her, she forced herself up, remembering something Cuiladan had told her. Then, swaying like a drunkard, she began to walk toward the boy holding onto the vine.

* * *

Just as Orophin, the last of the four, came over the edge of the chasm, the earth suddenly split asunder, the deep rolling in the trees transferring to the ground. Lightning crashed down from the sky and split trees all around the clearing. Estel's heart was filled with fear, and he trembled as he held onto the vine.

Night became as light as day, as a boulder next to him burst open in a flurry of white sparks. It was so close that Estel felt the heat from the lightning bolt and heard it fizzle as the power sank into the earth. This was worse than any nightmare he had ever imagined, and still, the earth did not stop shaking.

Suddenly, the vine in his hand was tugged three times, so hard that he almost let go. He sucked in a lungful of air, and, despite the chaos around him, realized his brothers were yanking on the vine. He looked up in time to see the stones at the top of the small mountain quiver, then begin to fall.

There was no time to allow them to climb back up. Suddenly, with all his strength, he began to pull. However, the vine did nothing. Strong hands appeared next to him, and together, they began to pull on the vine again.

But just as suddenly, another pair of hands went around his neck, as if to choke him. It was Morwen. "No!" The treacherous whore! She was going to impede him at the most critical moment! This could not be happening. He tore at the hands around his neck, but the woman held on, like a vice. Her fingernails sank into his tunic and seemed to pull open his tunic. With a sickening sound, louder than the thunder and the earth, the fabric in the front of his top ripped away, revealing the glittering white mithril undershirt his father had given him.

Her fingernails scratched and broke on the hard material, but she soon found a grip on the buttons, and began to undo them one by one. "What are you doing?!" he bellowed, but his voice was drowned by the noises around him. A sudden fury flashed through his heart, and, with all his strength, he tore the fingers loose, threw Morwen to the ground, and continued to pull at the vine.

This time, however, another pair of hands, stronger ones, pried his hands from the vine, and held them out to either side of him. He turned, only to see piercing blue eyes and a head of gold. Gildor! What was going on?

He could barely stand, and sagged against the elf's chest, but the elf seemed to be a solid rock against the movement of the earth, and held still. Morwen, too, picked herself up steadily, and tore open his mithril shirt. Then, with the help of Gildor, she pried the shirt off of him and began to run toward the woods with it.

"What are you doing?" he screamed at the elf. His heart ached over the loss of his father's gift. "Why are you letting her do this?" His confusion and fury drained his energy, and when Gildor finally let him go, he sank to the ground in fatigue.

For some reason, the loss of the mithril shirt hit him harder than anything else. It was more potent even than the thought of the death of his brothers, his entrapment in Mirkwood forest, and his own impending death. Perhaps it was the impact of the sudden material lost. It was dark, and he was half naked, lying in the dirt in Mirkwood.

Despite everything he had been taught, he began to sob.

* * *

Morwen ran as fast as she could, holding the mithril shirt out in front of her. Cuiladan had told her about it when she had brought up the subject of her brother. The dwarves made it, but elves had cast many magic spells around it so that no harm would come to the wearer. Their father, Elrond of Rivendell, had given it to Estel for his birthday. A royal gift. If she was correct, the Darkness would not be able to stand the magic, especially in its weakened state.

She dodged between the trees, her legs becoming freer even as she ran. The power was receding. It had used too much of its strength in calling up the final earthquake and the storm. It was so weak, it would not even notice her, as she dashed behind it, the black cloud of nothing faintly touching the blade of grass beneath it.

With a yell, she launched forward with the mithril shirt and wrapped it around the darkness. A sudden coldness came over her, and she screamed as it burned like fire. Immediately, she let go and fell into the undergrowth beneath it, but her cry was drowned out by the high-pitched shriek that issued from the cloud. The shirt of mithril stayed floating, as if a ghost was wearing it, and suddenly, white light burst from its midst.

The cry was unbearable, and Morwen tried to cover her ears, but she found that her hands were immobilized by the cold. As the light poured forth, so did the darkness, and gray tendrils of smoke flew through the air, lazily picked up by the wind. Morwen closed her eyes at the brightness, but still, she could see it through her eyelids. The cry continued, until she was sure she would never hear anything else again.

* * *

Estel first thought it was just another bolt of lightning. But, as the light continued to shine, he looked up. Suddenly, a piercing scream sounded, making his blood turn cold at the sound. It was as if a thousand Orcs were being tortured at the same time.

The sound and light seemed to last indefinitely. Even as Estel squeezed his eyes shut and held his hands over his ears, he was sure he would never forget the sound for as long as he lived. The smell of charcoal and smoke entered his nostrils, and he wondered for a brief second what was being burned, but even as he pondered this, the scream stopped, and the light disappeared.

Slowly, the boy opened his eyes and looked toward the sky. It was no longer a shade of inky blue, and darkness no longer tainted the stars. Instead, it had become a hazy gray, and in the eastern corner, it was beginning to turn pink. Dawn, at last, was coming to Mirkwood.

He scrambled up from where he was sitting, not understanding what had just happened, but remembered instantly that he had been trying to get his brothers out of the pit. He looked around himself, and saw Gildor, Ranien, Orophin, and Lindir, standing in awe at the sunrise, and looking around, just as confused as he was.

Estel's eyes looked to the chasm, and he smiled. There, standing before the now-filled chasm, were Elladan and Elrohir, looking dirty and much worse for the wear, but unhurt. His heart was so happy that Estel did not know what else to do but run toward them. "My brothers!" he cried, tears streaming down his face. "You are safe!" He embraced them, one in each arm, and wept into their shoulders.

It only took him a moment, however, to realize that they were not rejoicing with him. He stepped back and scanned the chasm and the faces of his brothers. Something was wrong, and, when it occurred to him, his heart filled with ice. "Wh-where is Cuiladan?"

**TBC... **

* * *

Again, sorry about the wait. Please review! I love them :)


	21. Chapter 20: The Hope of Man

I told you I'd update soon! Here's Chapter 20.

* * *

**Chapter 20**

**The Hope of Man**

The fire danced slowly, but without joy, as the eight travelers sat around it. Morwen of Lossarnach had finally revealed all of her secrets, but rather than triumphant, the eight were silent with mourning.

Estel ran the details through his head again. Morwen was actually the queen of the Rohirrim. She was married to Thengel King, but her husband was continually unfaithful because she had not born him any children and she was getting older. One night, the Darkness of Mirkwood came to her in a dream, and offered her heart's desire to her: it was strong, and it had ways to make her husband faithful and give her children. It only demanded her services in return. At the time, she had heard nothing of the shadow in Mirkwood, and agreed.

She had been assigned to find the sons of Elrond and to destroy them. But, she had not counted on finding Cuiladan and falling in love with him. Later, she realized how much hurt she had done to the world, and knew that the only way to save them was to destroy the Shadow. That was why she had pried the mithril shirt off of Estel: it was the only thing that could stop the Darkness.

"How will you go back to your people?" Estel asked. After hearing her story, he was much more sympathetic to her plight, though he knew he would never fully forgive her for what she had done. Because of her, he had lost a brother. Even at the thought, his heart ached.

She did not know how she would be received in Rohan, but she would try anyway.

The group had left Mirkwood forest at first light and traveled until dark. Morwen would leave them soon, but already, they were missing the light-heartedness of Cuiladan. Estel still could not believe that he was gone. It seemed that he was just a little ways off of his vision. He just needed to turn his head a little more, and there would be Cuiladan, smiling at him, his strong hands either tying a saddle or sharpening a sword. But as hard Estel tried, Cuiladan was never there. His smiles, his laughter. The loss of these made the company seem empty.

Estel sat away from the fire and looked down at the belt studded with mithril stars that his brother had given him. It was but a small token by which he could remember him. His heart, however, ached for Cuiladan. As he looked, he remembered the promise the two had made. Whoever became the King of Gondor would wear the belt and the shirt of mithril. But here he was, alone. Being an heir to the throne of men was dangerous.

Would he, Estel, be caught and killed in the same way because of his birth? Would men lose all hope because the sons of Elrond could not stay alive long enough for the return of the king? He did not know. But more and more, he began to loathe his birthright. It was ultimately that that had killed his brother.

This was the thought that he continued to have as he climbed into his bedroll and fell into a deep sleep that only comes to those in extreme states of fatigue.

* * *

The return journey was wearying both mentally and physically. Morwen parted ways with them to return to Rohan, defeated and shamed, but willing to try to get back into her lord's good graces again. The company felt more and more the loss of Cuiladan, but it was Estel who grieved the most. Elves were unchanging creatures, whose flames in the Hall of Manwe burned steadily and eternally, sometimes flickering, but never going out. They would mourn forever the loss of their comrades. But, because they lived so long, they knew that lives had to end and were wiser than the boy. They knew that Cuiladan's spirit would enter the Hall of Manwe and live forever among the Valar.

Men, however, were different. Their flames were like those of fireworks. They burned so brightly that they were but a spark in the night. This was the gift of men: while elves lived eternally, they never _lived_ in the way that men did, those fortunate creatures who had to grasp onto the years that they had and wring the life out of that short time. Men grabbed and took and devoured. They had to, to get the full experience of life. And they lived so fiercely, that their flames had no choice but to burn out. There was nothing left after this intense burst of _life_.

And that was the way Estel grieved. His heart was filled with sorrow, and he grieved to the full meaning of the word. He grieved because he had lost a brother and a friend, but also because, the spirit of his heart, in the heart of man, he knew that he had to feel every emotion to its deepest sense to truly understand each of them in his short life.

As Elladan watched his youngest brother, in his wordless mourning procession toward Rivendell. In a way, he was envious of him. He knew that though Estel was in a world of pain right now, and that his heart was drenched in sorrow, he would eventually recover and move on with his life. The pain would dull, and life would continue. It had to because men were bendable. They had to be, or else their spirit would break, and they would only continue as an empty shell. Men could not hold so much grief in their hearts for so long. Like their life flames, these emotions would peter out, though the memory of them would always be there. But love, happiness, and joy would replace these emotions later on.

It was not so with Elladan. He knew that he, like all elves, would carry the grief in his heart always. It would be an unchanging grief, but never as intense as Estel's, though it would still be a weight on his shoulders, like every other time of sadness in his life. Sometimes, he wished that he had the heart of a man. He wished he could mourn and grieve so his full capacity, and then continue with life. But it was not to be in the lives of the elves. He would go to the Undying Lands, still remembering his brother's death as if it had happened yesterday.

* * *

The only thing that gave Estel heart was seeing his home, Rivendell, again. However, when Elrond greeted them, the sadness in his eyes told him that he had already seen what had befallen Cuiladan.

After he had welcomed the others, he turned to Estel, his eyes mysterious and dark. "Darkness fell upon us while you were away," his _ada_ said carefully. "First, you must know that you did not destroy the Shadow in Mirkwood. You only weakened it, but now, its wrath upon Middle-Earth will be even greater than before." He paused, and then continued, letting the news sink in. Estel wondered why he was being told this first, instead of the twins. Before, this would have made him feel important and responsible. Now, it only made his heart sick with fear. The Shadow would come back, and this time, it would be stronger. "Also, sadness came to Rivendell. Your mother, as you know, was born from women that were seers, and when you were gone, her powers were magnified. And what she saw, grieved her so much that she fell ill." Estel's heart fluttered and his chest was suddenly enveloped in pain. His hands felt clammy when he balled them into fists to stop them from shaking. Elrond drew a noticeable breath. "And just this week, she passed from us."

Estel froze.

His mother was gone.

Air seemed to escape his lungs, and he gulped for oxygen, but none entered his body. His chest heaved, and he bowed his head, his right hand coming to his heart, in a sign of reverence and mourning, but more because he needed to breathe.

"Before she died," Elrond continued, his voice neutral. The boy looked up into his father's eyes, and, despite the flatness of his tone, his grief was betrayed by shining tears. "She revealed some of what she had seen. She told me that, 'The Life of Man is gone, and only Hope remains.' Cuiladan means the life of man, and Estel means hope. She foresaw the event of Cuiladan's death. It is not he that is destined to fill the throne of Gondor, but _you_."

Estel took a step back.

"I will not."

His father looked at him, his expression unreadable. "What do you mean?"

The boy lifted his chin in defiance. "I will _not_ be king of Gondor." He waited for Elrond's reprimand, but got none, and so continued, "Can you not see what it did to Cuiladan? It was his destiny that killed him! And now that the Shadow knows about the existence of two heirs, he will not only try to kill me, but destroy the race of men when his powers return. Only men now have the power to defeat him, and he knows it. I cannot fulfill this duty. Gondor will expect too much of me, and I cannot offer it to them. If the Shadow knows that I disappear and refuse to claim the throne, it may let the race of men live yet."

Elrond only looked at him and shook his head. "But for how long, I wonder, before he enslaves them? Is that fate really better than death?" When Estel looked down, Elrond put his hands on the boy's shoulders. "It is true that you have not the wisdom nor the strength now to lead Gondor, but with a few years time –"

"No!" Estel interrupted. "I will never be ready. I refuse this destiny."

His father gave him a long look. "Then what will you do, Estel?"

The boy ground his teeth together. He was without brother or mother. He had no kin in this world to turn to. But still, his heart was stout. "That is not my name. I am _not_ the hope of man. I will not be. Tell me my real name, and then, I will disappear. I will become a traveler. I will wander the lands of Middle-Earth, unknown to the world. I will never be king."

The lord of Rivendell saw the determination in the boy's face. _Nay_, he thought to himself. _He is no longer a boy, but a man. He has chosen his own path_. _Wherever that path may lead._

"What is my name?" the man demanded again.

Elrond sighed and put his hands back at his sides. His lips had not uttered the name for almost twenty years. But this man had the right to know his own identity. He could keep it from him no longer, as he had kept it from Cuiladan. He opened his mouth, and said the hopeful word.

"Aragorn."

**TBC... **

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One more chapter to go! Please review!


	22. Epilogue

Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Aragorn finished and was silent.

The elf waited next to the man, looking out onto the plains of Rohan. Together, they mourned the loss of Cuiladan, as if it had been only yesterday that the eldest son of Arathorn had died.

Then, Legolas turned to the man. "I am sorry for your loss, my friend. But I am glad that you have chosen the path that you have."

The man sighed. "I was young and selfish back then. I have realized my true destiny." He looked down once again. "But how can I lead a whole country when I cannot even lead my friends and my own kin to safety?"

The elf smiled, and reached for the man's shoulder. "None of this is your fault, Aragorn. Cuiladan's death, Boromir's death. They were part of fate. Even the loss of Merry and Pippin to the Orcs. You would not be the man you are today had these events not occurred. You must be thankful, despite the sorrow, of your experiences."

Aragorn did not seem to hear, but continued to rub his hands together. He looked toward the east again, and saw that the sky was beginning to turn pink at the edges. Dawn was approaching, and he had not been able to get any sleep. He put his hands at his hips, and fingered the belt that his brother had given him. It was worn and old now, but still served him well. It reminded him of his brother's death, but reminded him that he still had life. And if he was to continue the existence of men, he would have to return to Gondor.

Legolas watched as the man looked off into the distance, and the elf knew exactly what the man was thinking. "Come, friend," he whispered. "We must rouse the dwarf." He stood, helping Aragorn to his feet. "And do not despair. The life of man may be gone, but hope lives yet, Estel."

And for once, Aragorn did not flinch at the name, but smiled.

**The End**

**Wow. I've been working on this story for a long time (just look when this was published), and man does it feel good to finally be finished! The story came to me when I was sleeping, like many of my ideas do, and I continued to wonder what happened to Aragorn in his past that made him so protective during the time of the Fellowship of the Ring. The death of a brother, and the feeling of responsibility that came with it, seemed to be a wonderful explanation, and it gave me the chance to tell a story: something I love, and probably will continue to love until the day I die. **

**Thank you everyone who read and reviewed my story. I greatly appreciate your feedback, and I do read every single review that I get, though sometimes, I am too busy to reply to all of them. **

**As this is the end of my story, I'd like to write about something that I came across in the past few days: the C2, The Worst of the Worst LotR Fanfiction. I browsed through the collection of nearly 1000 stories and even went on the creator's forum, which he/she presumptuously titled, "So, you want your story removed from my C2." This was the most appalling thing I've ever seen on this site. I for one, had always been one for encouragement and occasional constructive criticism. I had thought that this site was safe for people who could write and publish as they wished, without fear of rejection, other than a few flames now and then. But even those reviews can be deleted. To be put on a C2, when one cannot even remove his story from it unless he deletes it from the website is downright rude.**

**It was true, I found some fan fiction on the C2 that was not the best, but what I found more of were writers that were trying to get a start in writing fan fiction because it was something they loved. They wanted feedback to encourage their writing and constructive criticism to better it. The forum and the C2, however, were just cruel. I know that when I first started writing fan fiction in the 6th grade, I was a terrible writer and was in desperate need of some help. That is not to say that my writing is perfect, or even close to it, now. However, had any of my writing been put on that C2 when I was first starting out, I would have been discouraged, and possibly even stopped writing when I was just beginning. **

**All I would like to say is, if you are reading this, expect mean people on this site. Just because your story is put into a C2 titled "The Worst of the Worst," does not mean that it is actually so. Keep writing. Don't get discouraged. Remember, your writing is yours, and no one else's!**


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